Book of Shadows (20 page)

Robert had argued. And disagreed. But he was playing the producer’s game and the producer was better at it than he was. As a Hollywood veteran the movie maker was charming, pleasant, and extremely good at getting his way; he’d learned long ago to tell people what they wanted to hear and to do it in a manner that hid his true intent.

Worn down and thrown off balance by this method of doing business, Robert had said he was returning to New York for some important personal appearances and to sign more contracts for subsidiary rights. A good-idea, thought the producer. It would help book sales and book sales meant more interest in the movie version.

“I thought it would be different,” Robert had told Marisa over the phone. “I’ve got a hot book and they know who I am and I thought it would be different.”

Marisa had let that one go by.

At Kennedy Airport she learned that Robert’s flight would be delayed, which gave her time to kill. The last thing she wanted to do was to sit around a crowded terminal with people bugging her for autographs and telling her what a bitch she was on screen and how they’d like to punch her out. What’s more she was hungry and tired after a day’s work under studio lights hot enough to melt steel. She wanted a drink and she wanted privacy.

That’s where being a celebrity paid off. She’d done it before and there was nothing to it. She simply asked directions to the VIP lounge and when she got there identified herself and asked if it was all right to wait inside.

It most certainly was.

The lounge was all beige, comfortable and air conditioned, and while Marisa was recognized, no one asked her for autographs, gushed over her, or made threats. She had a waiter bring her a glass of white wine and smoked nuts and olives, which was the extent of the lounge’s food supply. Food reminded her of Gregory Vandis, whose appetite had ended yesterday in a suicide described by Joseph Bess as “correct and convenient.”

“‘Correct’ means nothing appears wrong,” Bess had said. “Gregory’s death comes across as cosmetically perfect. He went out with a flare. Drowning, hanging. The kid didn’t believe in doing things halfway. But suddenly he can’t answer any questions and that’s the convenient part. Who the hell are his associates, his friends?”

“There’s Mom,” said Marisa.

“She’s out of it. Hysterical or sedated, nothing in between. She loved her boy.”

“I still don’t feel safe, Joseph.”

“I know. I’ve got a gut feeling somebody’s out there clocking Marisa Heggen twenty-four hours a day. Somebody’s running a game on you. But whoever it is, is smart. There’s nothing you can reach out and grab. Nothing to go to the police with. Gregory might have been a weak link in the chain, but he ain’t with us no more. His suicide comes close to failing the nose test.”

“What in heaven’s name is that?” said Marisa.

“Smell. There’s an odor starting to surround the passing of the late Gregory Vandis, who’s gone to that big pizzeria in the sky. I know it, I feel it, but that’s all I can say. Nothing definite, nothing to launch a full-fledged investigation. Let’s just say that hand made a believer out of me.”

Marisa had smiled. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

“You’ve got whatever I can give.”

Marisa bit into an olive, reminding herself that Gregory’s death didn’t end her problems.
Somebody’s running a game on you.
Leave it to Joseph Bess to get to the point. She wondered if she could steal the
Book of Shadows
from Robert, destroy it, and somehow get word to the Druids that the book no longer existed, that there was no reason to kill anymore. Assuming she could get her hands on the book, how would she get word to the Druids?

Joseph Bess had something to worry about, too. His superiors were cool to the idea that Congressman Anthony Paul Bofil consorted with child pornographers. Unless the evidence against Tony Paul was ironclad and overwhelming, the department didn’t want to take him on. Bofil was too important to have as an enemy.

It wasn’t that the police department wasn’t prepared to believe the worst of everybody. It was. The department simply didn’t want to start a war it couldn’t win.

A doorman’s word that Bofil was in the building the night Bess and his partner were stalking Raymond wasn’t enough. Why should the department do battle with a heavy like Anthony Paul Bofil when no one had witnessed him making contact with Raymond and Fancy? All Tony Paul was guilty of was living in an expensive building and being there the night two Manhattan detectives drove a car into a building lobby and ran over several expensive tropical fish.

Thinking about Joseph Bess when she was at the airport to pick up Robert made Marisa feel restless and slightly guilty, so she put on her oversized dark glasses and left the lounge to check on Robert’s plane. The lounge and the stairway leading to it looked down on the terminal and Marisa decided to stand alone at the top of the stairs and see if the new arrival time had been put up on the board.

She saw them. The couple she had seen with Nat that day. At first her mind rejected the sight of the stocky, white-haired man and the tall woman, but her eyes followed them across the terminal floor as they weaved in and out of the people waiting or walking toward ramps and departure gates. The couple didn’t see Marisa. They walked toward a series of departure gates on the right and Marisa knew they were here to kill Robert. She closed her eyes and resisted the impulse to flee.

But if she ran away, Robert would die. She opened her eyes, forcing herself to stay calm by taking deep breaths. Turning, she quickly ran back into the lounge. Stopping the first waiter she saw, Marisa said, “I’d like to speak to someone in charge, please.”

“Is there anything wrong, Miss Heggen?”

“Yes—I mean, no.” Who would believe her story?
Druids.
Christ, who would believe her?

Marisa said, “I’m supposed to meet a friend at gate fifteen, but, I’m—I’m not feeling well. I don’t think I can walk that far. I was wondering, could someone from the airport staff meet him for me and bring him up here?”

“I could call a nurse if—”

“No, no. It’s probably a virus, a summer cold. I’m a little weak, but I’ll be all right. Could you send a couple of security guards to meet him … ?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

Marisa wanted to scream. “You don’t know?”

“I mean, is he coming in on an international flight? He’s got to clear customs no matter what.”

“No, no, no.” Marisa looked at her watch. “He’s coming from Los Angeles and he’s due to land in fifteen minutes—unless they’ve changed the flight time again. I’d really appreciate it if you could have security guards meet him and bring him here.”

The waiter smiled. “Can’t promise you security guards, Miss Heggen, but we’ll see what we can do.”

Marisa thought of Nat Shields burning to death. “Would you please hurry? I don’t mean to rush you, but I’d like to have somebody waiting at the gate for him.”

“Yes, Miss Heggen.”

The waiter scurried off and seconds later returned with a toothy, wide-hipped young woman sporting a lion’s mane of dyed blond hair. Marisa recognized her as the guardian of the front door, who sat behind a desk outside and denied lesser mortals entrance to the lounge.

In crisp, businesslike fashion the toothy blonde said, “Miss Heggen, I’m Brandy Helm. What can we do for you?”

Marisa told her.

Brandy Helm eyed her carefully, as though on the verge of disbelieving the entire story, and when Marisa had finished, the blond woman said, “We could page him and have him meet you at the information desk downstairs. Can you walk that far?”

Since the best defense was a good offense, Marisa became more insistent, presenting her lie as a truth beyond questioning. “Look, I said I wasn’t feeling well. Now just send someone over to meet my friend and bring him back. He’ll take care of me.”

Pausing just long enough, she added, “Thank you, Miss Helm,” and she delivered the words in a tone that commanded obedience. Marisa was acting now and unless she was good at it, Robert would die. To get what she wanted, Marisa had to remind Brandy Helm that her job, after all, was to cater to her betters.

Once reminded, Brandy Helm remembered. Her tone and manner did a 360-degree turn. “We’ll take care of it right away, Miss Heggen. I’ll see to it personally.”

A toothy grin followed.

Sensing that Brandy needed to be treated with a certain firmness, Marisa turned her back on her and walked to the bar where she ordered a Scotch. Straight. Her nerves were shredded. White wine wasn’t strong enough to put them together again.

She watched Brandy Helm leave the lounge with a determined stride, pushed into action by Marisa’s lie.

Marisa finished the Scotch and ordered another. If she wasn’t sick she soon would be. Hard liquor on an empty stomach wasn’t the smartest thing Marisa had ever done.

Someone bothered her for an autograph. Marisa signed it in a daze, then signed a second, a third. A hasty scrawl on a cocktail napkin, a quick scribble on a postcard, a scratch-scratch in the back of a paperback book. She forced a smile and tuned out the compliments, the sappy remarks, and even the questions, which she answered by nodding her head and saying
yes.

The unwelcome intrusions seemed to last for hours, and when Marisa turned to ask the bartender to check on Robert’s plane for her, she faced a different bartender. This one had just come on duty, but, impressed by her celebrity, he did as she asked.

Robert’s plane was early. It had landed ten minutes ago.

Fumbling through her purse Marisa found a five-dollar bill, dropped it on the bar and ran from the lounge, not caring how she would explain her “miraculous” recovery to Brandy Helm.

Marisa came face to face with the Comforts.

She was running across the crowded terminal floor, dodging people and baggage trains, her mind filled with fear for Robert’s safety. She had almost reached the tunnel leading to Robert’s gate when she saw the white-haired man and the tall woman hurrying toward her.

Marisa saw them before they saw her. She stopped, her mouth opened in shocked silence.

The couple walked fast, looking over their shoulder as though pursued, and when they looked forward they saw Marisa.

The Comforts stopped, eyes on her, and the tall woman took a step toward Marisa, but was pulled back by the white-haired man, who whispered something to her and again turned to look over his shoulder.

The woman pointed to Marisa and said something which made the man shake his head.

Behind them, Marisa saw Robert, Brandy Helm, and two armed security guards, one of whom was pushing an empty wheelchair, obviously meant for the “sick” Miss Heggen.

The white-haired man and the tall woman also looked at Robert and the people surrounding him and that’s when Marisa made her move. Running toward Robert and waving her hand, she called his name. She had to run by the Comforts and was close enough to touch them; for a second she thought they might grab her.

But she kept running, and when she reached Robert she threw herself in his arms.

She clung to him and trembled.

When she looked back, the Comforts had disappeared.

“M
R. BESS, MR. BESS
. How the fucking hell are you?”

“I got a headache, Bienstock, and my ulcer’s acting up. What’s on your mind?”

“So much for recalling old times. I’m calling you about one Gregory Vandis, who’s been with us since yesterday.”

“Don’t tell me. Mr. Vandis is complaining about life in the city morgue. Nobody speaks to him and the bathroom is too far down the hall.”

“No, Mr. Bess, that’s not why I called. Mr. Vandis seems quite satisfied with the way we’re treating him. Leastwise he hasn’t complained. Lucky us. We get all the quiet ones. I wanted to tell you we found some unusual stains on young Mr. Vandis’s jeans.”

Joseph Bess frowned as he shifted the receiver to another ear. “I’m listening.”

“Blood. Type B negative. Not his, which is type O. And before you ask, the answer is yes, we did check his mother’s blood type. Hers is type AB. Something else. You listening?”

“Aren’t I, though.”

“Under his fingernails. Some more of that type B negative and bits of human tissue. Not his.”

Bess was on his feet, receiver wedged between shoulder and jaw, hands quickly rolling down his shirt sleeves. “Nice to hear from you, Bienstock. Very, very nice. I’m on my way down there now.”

“Want me to order you a sandwich or something?”

“Jesus, how can you people eat in that place? No, I don’t want anything.”

“Is it all right if I order something for you anyway and eat it myself? The city’s paying and this way I get three lunches.”

“Three? What’s with three?”

“My man, you aren’t the only detective in Fun City. I’ve got another gold shield coming down to see me in connection with his case and he also finds it distasteful to eat while surrounded by dead bodies in various states of decomposure and autopsy.”

“Goodbye, Bienstock.”

The big black man watched the Puerto Rican youth leave the drugstore and hurry to the corner, where he quickly looked left and right, then began jogging across the street. The black man smiled and stepped back into the darkness of a doorway. He could still see the Puerto Rican, who ran with his head down, a small bottle of medicine clutched in one hand. The Puerto Rican was almost abreast of the darkened doorway when the black man made his move.

Despite his large size, the black man was quick. He took two steps and suddenly was in front of the Puerto Rican, who almost bumped into him. In the panic that followed, the Puerto Rican reached in the back pocket of his jeans for his switchblade.

The black man smiled. “You ain’t that dumb.”

The Puerto Rican froze.

“Let’s go,” said the black man.

The Puerto Rican shook his head.

“You make it hard on me,” said the black man, “and I got no choice but to make it hard on you. What goes around comes around, now don’t it? We want to talk to you, is all. When we finish you can take that little bottle to your sick lady up the street.”

The Puerto Rican said, “You ain’t got no right,
cop.”