Book of Shadows (26 page)

“Murray wants a deal. He’s holding out. He’ll give us a name if we go easy on him. He faces a manslaughter charge for pushing Fancy down the stairs and we also have him for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Working something out with Murray might be the only way we’ll ever get close to Bofil. What’s wrong?”

Marisa hugged herself and shivered. “I don’t know. It’s not what happened, or almost happened. Funny thing. Fighting back like that—you know, cutting up Alison and Cornell—I feel good. That’s a horrible thing to say, isn’t it?”

Bess shook his head. “I understand. You fought back. That’s why you feel good. If you hadn’t fought back—”

“I’d be dead. No, what’s bugging me is I’m unsure about something. Alison learned from Robert that the book was missing, right?”

“Sure.”

“I mean Alison and Robert were … well, they
were.
You know what I mean. So that’s how she knew. Yet there’s something buzzing around in my head, something Alison and Cornell said while they were here and I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly seeing changelings everywhere. Next thing you know, you’ll have me seeing them. I don’t know much about the subject, except what you’ve told me, but I suppose anyone can be a changeling.”

Marisa nodded, her mind elsewhere.

Bess said, “Any idea who this mysterious political figure—changeling might be? Tell me it’s Bofil, so I can simplify my life.”

Marisa waved him away. “Life’s not that simple. No, it was something those two said, something I’d mentioned earlier that they knew, but shouldn’t have known. God, I’m so mixed up right now I can’t remember my middle name.”

“Which is?”

“Why did you ask me that? I hate it and never use it.”

“Come on.”

“Doris.”

Bess grinned. “Doris?”

“See what I mean? Heggen’s a Norwegian name, which fits since we’re mostly Norwegian. Marisa’s Italian and you can keep Doris. Ugh! It reminds me of Boris, which is why I never use it.”

Bess stood up and shook his head. “Doris. I guess you want me to keep quiet about that.”

“If you don’t want ground glass in your granola, yes.”

“Doris,” mumbled Bess as he walked over to a nearby closet, opened it and took out the shopping bag containing the
Book of Shadows.

“Wonder if we’ll find a Doris in this book,” he said. “And you couldn’t make heads or tails of anything in it?”

“No more than you can. If there’s some sort of list in its grimy looking pages, I couldn’t find it,”

Bess took the book out of the bag. “My guess is it’s written in a few foreign languages, maybe even some codes. The changeling wants it and the Comforts want it. Maybe I should run off a few copies so everybody can be happy.”

Marisa said, “I wish there was some other way besides your holding on to the book. Those people have an incredible spy system. They can find out just about anything they want to know.”

“The coven,” said Bess, still eyeing the book. “They obviously do most of the leg work and pass on their information to the Comforts. Now from what you tell me, the coven and the changeling both want to go into business for themselves, and to hell with anybody else.”

Bess looked at Marisa, “Uh, I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve been thinking about what you said, about them coming for you because they still think you’ve got the book. If you stay here, you’re right, you’ll be in trouble. I was wondering, if … if you … well, I’ve got a spare room. Actually it’s Gina’s room, but the two of you could … I mean, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I just feel I could keep an eye on you better, at least for the next couple of days. My sister-in-law could chaperone us, at least part of the time. Look, forget it. It was just a thought, that’s all.”

“I’d be glad to,” said Marisa. “And thank you for asking. I can’t think of anywhere I’d feel safer.”

Bess looked shocked. “You would?”

“I would.”

“Robert might—”

“Robert who?”

Bess smiled. “That’s great. I mean … well, you know what I’m trying to say.”

“I hope so.”

The silence lay between them as they stared at each other. And then the telephone rang.

Marisa smiled, her voice mildly taunting. “Saved by the bell.”

Bess looked away.

She picked up the receiver. “Yes? Just a minute.”

She held the receiver out to Bess.

“Sergeant Bess,” he said into the phone. He looked at Marisa, then quickly looked away.

She watched him listen in silence. He was a bundle of contrasts and all of them attractive. There was danger in him, a barely controlled capacity for violence which he seemed at ease with. On the other hand, he was shy and unsure of himself when it came to women, or so it appeared to Marisa. He was a loving father but at times he was so absorbed in police work he forgot everything and everyone. He was compassionate, yet his world began and ended with being a cop, making his ideas about right and wrong absolute. Nothing in between.

He was intelligent, but he hid it. He had a sense of humor but at times it crossed over into bitterness. There was a decency in Joseph Bess, but the death of a man like Raymond didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.

A man of contrasts. And all of them attractive to Marisa.

Bess hung up. His chin was on his chest.

“What’s wrong?” asked Marisa.

“One of our informants died. Call came in to the precinct a few minutes ago. They found him down on Avenue A in an abandoned building. Needle was still stuck in his arm. He OD’d. Only twenty-two. Fact is, his twenty-second birthday wasn’t until next week. He was going to have a party, invite me and Felix and a few other friends. Princess Grace.”

“I remember,” said Marisa. “Gina said he was one of your informants. And he’s dead?”

Bess nodded sadly.

Marisa said, “I’m sorry.”

“He wasn’t a bad guy. He studied art and was pretty good at it. Just fell in with the wrong crowd, that’s all, and he needed money to keep up with them, so he hung some paper—”

Bess looked at Marisa. “Sorry. He forged a few checks and ended up in the slammer. I felt sorry for him and went out of my way to work something out with the parole board. In one sense it was too late. He, Harold, was never the same after prison. They raped him in there, beat him, and when he came out, he just didn’t feel like being an artist anymore. So he went back to those friends who’d gotten him in trouble in the first place. He survived any way he could, but he never forgot my getting him out of prison so he gave me stuff from time to time. He was a slim blond guy who kind of looked like Grace Kelly, so everybody called him Princess Grace.”

Bess sighed. “Damn good artist, that kid. Did a sketch of Gina that is really beautiful. Tell you one thing.”

He looked at Marisa. “Harold hated junk. Tried it once and got sick as a dog. Did other drugs but stayed away from heroin.”

“So what happened? I mean, he died of a heroin overdose, right?”

Bess nodded. “That’s what it looks like. I say Bofil killed him.”

“Why?”

“Because somehow he learned that Harold was my snitch. Because with Raymond, Fancy, and Harold dead, the trail’s come to an end. It’s going to be hard to nail Tony Paul now. Hell, it’s going to be impossible. Tony Paul’s got a reputation of taking care of his enemies. Never figured he’d do that to Harold but he did. He did.”

Bess turned his back to Marisa. She saw his hand come up to wipe his eye and she said nothing.

Bess said, “Let’s get some air. I feel like walking.”

“I’ll throw a few things in a bag.”

Outside they walked in silence, Marisa’s arm in his. The rain had stopped but the sky was still gray and thunder rolled across the heavens as if nature was angry and preparing to destroy.

G
ROGGY FROM A PAIN-KILLING
injection, Cornell Castle, his eyes and hands bandaged, lay naked on a leather couch in the doctor’s small reception room.

The office also served as an apartment and while no patients were expected on a Saturday, Dr. Michaels, a member of Herod’s coven, wanted no blood on his silk sheets. Nor did Dr. Michaels like the idea of taking Cornell’s keys and going to his apartment to bring back a change of clothes. But he’d gone anyway, leaving Cornell alone with two Siamese cats who’d gotten bored with staring at him and were now asleep in the next room under an X-ray machine.

The injection was wearing off; Cornell could feel the skin on the left side of his face starting to itch and his left eye, the one that had suffered the most damage, was throbbing. The doctor had done his best, but he wasn’t an eye specialist and that’s what Cornell needed.

It wasn’t easy to locate a specialist who wouldn’t ask questions; all Dr. Michaels could do was promise he’d find one as soon as possible, which wasn’t what Cornell wanted to hear. He wanted one immediately. Only a specialist could determine if permanent damage had been done.

Meanwhile Dr. Michaels had enough to do. He’d treated Alison; she could walk, but she’d been hysterical and had to be sedated. Bofil insisted that neither she nor Cornell return to their apartments; the coven would find somewhere for them to stay until it was learned if the police were after them.

Dr. Michaels had a wife, who was spending the weekend visiting their son in a military school upstate; she and his practice were the reasons he gave for not wanting Cornell to stay beyond tomorrow night. The real reason was Cornell’s hostility. When Michaels expressed surprise that a woman had done this much damage to Alison and Cornell, Cornell had lost control and kicked him. That’s when the doctor knew the less time spent with Cornell Castle, the better; after tomorrow let someone else in the coven take over his care and feeding.

When Michaels returned he would find that Cornell, sullen with pain, had urinated on the reception room rug. Unable to see, Cornell hadn’t even bothered to find the bathroom. Let the doctor worry about cleaning up.

That cunt Marisa Heggen. Because of her Cornell was blind and his hands hurt like hell. He wanted to kill her an inch at a time and drink her blood. If he had killed her immediately, as he had wanted to, this never would have happened. Fucking Alison. She was in bad shape emotionally and worried about permanent scars. She was also worried that Bofil might blame her for what happened.

When he’d heard the news, Bofil had exploded, but he calmed down enough to have Dr. Michaels pick them up in his car and bring some of his wife’s clothes for Alison to wear. Alison was the one who had to tell Bofil face to face what had gone wrong; Cornell was too shaken by his blindness to speak coherently.

Cornell could care less about any of it now. Let Bofil worry about the Comforts. Cornell wanted his sight back; he wanted to be able to use his hands and not have to piss on the floor like some old rummy with bladder trouble. Even Michaels’ two cats were better off than Cornell. At least they could see.

He shifted on the leather couch and listened. There was the sound of a key being inserted in a lock and Cornell, holding his arms straight out in front of him, struggled to sit up. The two Siamese cats silently sped past him toward the front door.

Cornell’s voice was slurred. “Reggie, you fuckin’ son of a bitch. You leave me alone here and go off and you don’t even turn on the radio. Next time, man, turn on the fuckin’ radio.”

The door opened then closed, and footsteps came towards him.

“Reggie, your goddam phone rang a couple of times. You—”

The footsteps stopped in front of him. Cornell waited.

“Reggie? What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?”

The two Siamese cats hung back, the hair rising on their backs, their tails straight up in the air. The frightened animals spat and hissed.

Cornell, sitting on the edge of the couch, licked his lips nervously, his arms outstretched in front of him.

“Reggie, if you’re running a game on me, so help me, I’ll—”

“It’s no game, Mr. Castle,” said Rupert Comfort softly. “It’s all quite real. We’ve only got two days left and we thought we’d ask you a few questions.”

Bofil sat at his desk and stared at the ringing phone for a few seconds before reaching for the receiver.

When he’d placed the receiver to his ear, he said nothing.

“Solomon, this is Michaels. I’ve got—”

“Did you forget your coven name?” asked Bofil.

“Look, just cut the crap. We—You’ve got a problem. I don’t know how long I can stay on this phone. All hell’s broken loose and the cops … just listen. I’ve got a message for you from the Comforts.”

Bofil chewed the inside corner of his mouth and stared at a wall aquarium of tropical fish. “I’m listening.”

Dr. Michaels’ voice was high-pitched with fear. “They know what you tried to do with the book. I’m supposed to tell you—to tell you they’re going to kill you.”

Bofil blinked and squeezed the receiver until his knuckles were white.

“When did they tell you this?”

“Minutes ago. It’s the only reason I’m still alive. They needed a messenger boy. Otherwise I’d be dead.”

Bofil switched the receiver to another ear. “What’s that noise in the background?”

“Fire engines, cop cars. I told you all hell’s breaking loose around here. I’m calling from a public phone a block from my apartment, but the cops might chase me away because they want to use it. Just listen. I can’t keep my hands from shaking. I’m scared out of my gourd. They put the fear of God in me, man. They caught me just as I was coming off the elevator in my building. I was on my way to get some clothes for Cornell—”

“How did they know where to find you and Cornell?”

“Jesus, how do those two know anything? They just know, that’s all. Who knows how many people Alison’s talked to in the last hour? Maybe Cornell used the phone as soon as I left him alone. How the hell should I know, and what difference does it make? They
know.
They dragged me into a stairwell and asked me questions and man, I told them everything they wanted to know.”

Bofil said coolly, “What
do
you know?”

“I know Alison and Cornell were sliced into chopped meat when they went to the actress’s apartment to get the
Book of Shadows
for you. I know you didn’t tell the Comforts you’d located the book. That’s what Cornell said.”