Book of Shadows (18 page)

He looked at Cornell Castle. “What makes you think I’ll let Gregory or anyone else throw that in the garbage?”

The changeling opened the limousine door. “Soon as possible, Cornell.”

When Cornell Castle stood outside the car, the changeling leaned forward and said, “You know where to reach me. The matter of Gregory was not on the Comforts’ list of things to do, but let’s face it: They are more than responsible for a certain amount of tension we’re all under at the moment. I don’t feel the slightest connection with my village in England. Can’t remember what the damn place looks like, yet I’m supposed to jump when some old party from across the water and his wife snap their fingers.”

The changeling’s smile was cold. “I’ve long since left the nest, Cornell. Been in business for myself for a long, long time. I’ve simply neglected to make it official. The operative word here is
finesse.
I’m going to finesse the Comforts into doing what I want. When I’m through talking to them, they’ll take the time out from their appointed rounds and perform this little service for me. They’ll do it because I’ll have them going away thinking they’re really helping themselves, which in a sense they are.”

The smile disappeared and the changeling’s eyes became a hard green. “The Comforts are a problem and problems are to be solved, to be dealt with. Disposed of.”

Cornell Castle blinked. “You’re kidding.”

The changeling looked down at his $150 Sulka tie, brushing away an imaginary hair. “I never kid. You ought to know that. I said disposed of and I meant disposed of. All in good time, Cornell, all in good time. Finesse, remember? Now you just swish on out of here and tell Ronald to throw away that slop he’s eating and drive me away from this place. The sight of these sweating fools running around in their underwear with glazed looks on their dumb faces is more than I can stand.”

“W
ITCHES AND THIEVES THROUGHOUT
Europe and England would use it,” said Marisa. “They called it a hand of glory. They found a man who’d been hanged, cut off a hand, then dried and prepared it in some grisly fashion. Supposedly it put people into a deep sleep, allowing the thieves and witches to prowl about the victims’ home undisturbed. It also was said to have the power to make a person talk and reveal hidden secrets. Sort of a very weird truth serum, you might say.”

She shook her head. “Listen to me. I read a few books on the occult and all of a sudden I’m an expert on black magic!”

Joseph Bess yawned, covering his mouth with both hands. “Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep this weekend. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork that goes with any arrest. Our fat friend Gregory—”

“Is now back on the street,” said Marisa in disgust. “Back lurking in doorways, probably. Or eating pizza. I think the only way to get rid of him is to drive a hero sandwich through his heart.”

Bess chuckled. “It’s called due process. Arraignment, hearing, and bail. Everybody’s entitled to it and that includes Gregory.”

Adjusting her sunglasses, Marisa looked around her as though expecting to see Gregory in the crowds at the Central Park Zoo, where she, Bess, and his daughter, Gina, were having lunch. They sat outdoors on the café patio.

Gina had left the table and was several feet away, talking to a friendly Latin-looking man who was selling huge multicolored balloons on a stick. The man allowed Gina to help him fill the balloons with helium from a metal container and her squeals of delight each time she filled one pierced the air like a whistle. Marisa noticed that Bess kept his eye on Gina.

Over the weekend he’d told Marisa what had happened to Gina three years ago, and Marisa now knew why it was so important to him to find Raymond, the child-porn merchant.

The weekend. Too shaken to sleep in her apartment after Gregory’s second attempted break-in, Marisa had spent the weekend at the Plaza Hotel on Central Park South, indulging herself in room service and relative security and anonymity. Each day she took one or two long walks, losing herself in the nearby Fifth Avenue crowds, shying away if anyone seemed to recognize her.

By the end of the second day she’d calmed down and begun to take satisfaction in having physically fought Gregory and distracted him long enough for Joseph Bess to do the heavy work. For the first time in her life, Marisa could see the attraction people found in violence. Fat Gregory had been giving her some uneasy moments, but Marisa, with a strong assist from Joseph Bess, had gotten her own back. There was a lot to be said for getting even.

Bess, still on sick leave, had spent the weekend filling out forms needed to charge Gregory Vandis with attempted breaking and entering, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, and continued harassment of a civilian. Bess didn’t think the last charge would stick, but for Marisa’s sake he was determined to try.

She and Bess hadn’t seen each other over the weekend. Instead they’d kept in touch by phone, speaking three or four times a day. He was the one person she could talk to, the only one she could tell the truth to. Who else would believe what she was going through and why? Druids and the writings of witches were things that didn’t happen in real life. Except they were happening to Marisa.

As for Robert, Marisa telephoned him in California, more from a sense of duty than from desire, and was relieved to find him not at his hotel. She wasn’t in the mood for Robert and his belief that his good luck came from the
Book of Shadows.

Marisa was upset that not everyone saw Gregory as the danger she did.

Joseph Bess said, “We can’t formally connect him to the hand. He claims he never saw it before I showed it to him. Without witnesses who saw him bring it to your apartment, I’m afraid he’s going to get away with that story.”

“He’s lying,” said Marisa.

“Probably. The hand belongs to Norbert Ruiz, one of the two dead Puerto Ricans we found in Central Park a couple of weeks ago. Norbert was called Crazy Horse, and with good reason. He walked around with a machete wrapped in a towel. He’d use the machete on you, too.”

Bess sipped milk and looked over the patio railing at his daughter. “Gregory says he never saw the dead men before and we can’t shake him on that. No matter how hard we try there’s no way we can link him to Ivan Baez and Norbert Ruiz. The Ricans were street freaks and petty hoods. Gregory lives at home with mama, who swears fat boy was watching television with her the night the Ricans got sliced.”

“Shit.”

Bess finished his milk. “She could be lying. She could also be one of the weirdos who are after you. But there’s no proof. The only way I can stay on this case is to keep after Gregory as a break-in artist, nothing more. If I were to mention Druids again, or witches for that matter, I guarantee you nobody would listen. They might even drop a net over me.”

“Or ignore you, which is worse.”

Bess aimed a forefinger at her. “Now you know what it’s like to be Armenian. History’s ignored us from day one. We don’t exist anymore, except as parts of Russia and Turkey. Armenia was once an independent nation, but a few wars, a few million Armenians slaughtered, and goodbye independent, nation. There’s four million of us scattered throughout the world and nobody knows we once had our own country. Jesus, don’t get me started. More and more I find myself talking about what I used to have and don’t have anymore.”

Marisa reached across the table and touched his hand. “You have a lot.”

“My wife didn’t think so. She married me with the hope of reforming me. Women do that, you know. She figured I’d drop the idea of being a cop and go into some other line of work. When she found out she’d figured wrong, well …”

He looked into Marisa’s eyes. “I keep telling myself I didn’t kill her.”

“You didn’t.”

“Officially, it reads an accident. She got in the car, she drove too fast, and she crashed. And she died. That’s what’s on record. But, I guess she couldn’t take the weight anymore. Too much worry. She told me she’d begun to hate the phone. Every time it rang she thought it might be somebody telling her I was dead. Didn’t help matters that two cops we’d known had gotten killed and she knew their wives …”

His voice trailed off.

Marisa said softly, “I think you ought to change the subject. Hindsight’s very easy to come by. We can all look back and see what we should have done. Doesn’t take any guts to do that. Takes guts to get off the floor and try living once more. Joseph, we all make choices. Your wife made hers. Who says the choice has to turn out the way you want it to? I’ve made choices and haven’t been that happy about it, but I’m learning to do my crying in private.”

Bess squeezed her hand. “Choices. Maybe I can pay somebody to make mine for me. It seems to be getting tougher and tougher.”

He looked at Gina. “I have to make choices about her.”

“You still worry about her, don’t you?”

“Better believe it. Can’t help thinking it was my fault that it happened …”

“Stop it.”

“I mean it. If I wasn’t so hot on being a cop twenty-four hours a day, maybe I’d have been there when that guy came for her.”

Marisa touched his face. “Look at me.”

He did.

“Hindsight, remember? Stop playing God. The part’s already taken.”

“If I could only have gotten my hands on Raymond.”

Marisa thought a few seconds then said, “How’s your partner coming along with his checking out the tenants of that Sutton Place co-op?”

“Zilch. They’re all respectable and the building management isn’t cooperating worth a damn. They tell me the sort of thing I mentioned, meaning child prostitution, doesn’t happen in their building. We can’t connect one tenant to Raymond. Not one. They’re all people with money, connections, influence. You go near them and they drop lawyers on your head by the carload. There’s one duplex in the building which the governor occasionally uses when he’s in town. The vice president of these United States has even slept there, among other heavies. A building with those kinds of people dropping by doesn’t want scandal and it doesn’t want police poking around. What’s more, they’ve got the clout to give us a hard time.”

“And you’re sure Raymond was supposed to be going into that building?”

“Yeah. Princess Grace says so and the Princess doesn’t lie. She’s a righteous informant. Damn, I really want to nail Raymond.”

Marisa chewed her lip and frowned, then smiled, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’ve been helping me. Now it’s my turn. We’re going to that veddy fancy Sutton Place co-op.”

“Hey, hold on. Since when did you become a cop?”

“Since a few seconds ago. I feel like doing something crazy. Ever since that wrestling match with Gregory, I’ve been wanting to get back at the world. Call Gina.”

Bess grabbed her wrist. “What the hell are you up to?”

She smiled at him. “I’m going to show you how good an actress I can be.”

“If I read you right this has something to do with Raymond.”

“And his mysterious friends. Finish your milk, mommy’s going to take you for a walk.”

She stood up. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

Bess closed one eye and stared at her. “I’m still waiting to hear what you’re up to. I’m not sure I can go along with it.”

“I’ll do it without you if I have to. I can be very stubborn, Joseph.”

He grinned. “Tell me about it.”

The doorman at the Sutton Place address was not the one who’d been on duty the night Raymond had almost gone inside, but like the two well-dressed gray-haired ladies standing on the sidewalk beside him, he immediately recognized Marisa.

Marisa, her arm in Joseph Bess’s arm, gave one of her most spirited impromptu performances. She made sure she was recognized. And she acknowledged the attention, smiling and talking to the doorman and the two old ladies, who were delighted to meet a star in the flesh. Marisa had told Joseph Bess that celebrities received a reaction from the public. That’s what she was counting on.

“We’re interested in buying a co-op,” said Marisa, clinging to Joseph Bess, who tried not to look embarrassed. “A couple of people in the building have recommended it.”

“Ohhh, that’s nice,” said one of the two old ladies, turning to her friend, who nodded in agreement.

Anxious to impress Marisa, the doorman mentioned the names of some of the other tenants. The old lady with a cane and a hairy face mentioned that the governor and the vice president of the United States occasionally stayed in the building overnight, as guest of a major law firm which owned the largest and most luxurious duplex in the building.

“That’s probably my lawyer,” said Marisa. “He charges me enough to afford a place like this.”

The doorman hovered nearby, his eyes on Marisa. “That’s Fletcher, Bofil, Goldstein, and about fifty more partners. It’s a big political law firm.”

Marisa tapped her lips with a forefinger. “Bofil, Bofil. That wouldn’t be Anthony Paul Bofil, would it?”

“The congressman,” said the smiling doorman. “One of the political bigwigs of our day. He uses the place himself every now and then. Mostly it’s for his clients and important contacts, I guess. Bofil was here a week ago, him and a few friends. That was the night I hear some car crashed into a building up the street.”

Bess’s fingers dug into Marisa’s arm.

She smiled. “Really?”

“Beautiful,” whispered the detective. “God almighty, beautiful.”

The doorman graciously accepted a balloon from Gina. “It’s supposed to be a secret,” he said, “but I hear Bofil’s planning to run for senator.”

A
FTER CUTTING THE TELEPHONE
wires, Rupert Comfort left the basement of the apartment house at Eighth Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street and walked two blocks to the car where his wife waited. Here he nodded to her and without a word she opened the door and got out, her eyes still on his face. After silently staring at each other for a few seconds, they parted.

He entered the car to wait, sliding across the seat until he was behind the wheel. She walked past uncollected garbage and Puerto Rican men lounging in front of bars and
bodegas,
the food stores catering to Latins, and returned to the building her husband had just left. She ignored the obscene remarks aimed at her in Spanish and the laughter that followed.