Faustus Resurrectus (4 page)

Not that I would know
.

Valdes wiped some condensation from his glass, eyes shifting to his own reflection. Dressed in suit and tie, he looked like many of the men in the bar. The double chin and paunch many of them possessed, and he’d been developing before everything had happened, were long gone however, carved away by a fifteen-year diet of government-dictated subsistence.

At least I still have my hair.

Dark and thick, it had recently begun to show salt in the pepper. Crow’s feet deepened the corners of his eyes. Their presence reminded Valdes of the good humor he’d possessed once, then lost, and now recently rediscovered.

Fifteen years, eight months and four days later. Give or take.

He watched Lopter swill the last of his drink, set the glass down and begin a round of good-bye handshakes. When he walked out the door to Pearl Street, Valdes drifted to the window to watch.

Enjoy your freedom for now, Joe. It’s not your time.

Yet.

***

The following Wednesday evening, Donovan sat on his motorcycle outside of Joann’s building. He’d picked up the ring from Lars that afternoon, and although he didn’t plan to propose yet, he liked the feel of it against his thigh.

Joann came out of the building, changed out of her work suit into jeans and a leather jacket that were more appropriate for motorcycle riding. Her hair was tied loosely up, and she swung her own helmet in one hand. He took a folded piece of cloth from his pocket and proffered it.

“What’s this?” she asked

“A blindfold.”

“Mystery tour?” Her mouth curled in a half-smile filled with curiosity as she accepted it. “Am I dressed for it?”

He kissed her. “You are dressed properly.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and went back for more. He matched her, then pulled back with a grin. “But I’m not telling you where we’re going. That’s why it’s called a ‘mystery tour.’”

***

They rode into Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge. The lane was clear ahead of him, Joann held him tightly, and the weather was perfect.

Lucky man.

On Christopher Street he turned the Vulcan off the West Side Highway towards the center of Manhattan. They parked, and he helped her with her helmet.

“Are we almost there?”

“Almost.”

They stepped into a building’s tiny lobby. A group of twentysomethings crowded in behind them. A baby-faced man in business casual business clothing saw the blindfold first. He smiled and whispered to his friends, who all turned to stare. Donovan winked and put his finger to his lips. When the elevator came, they urged him to bring her on alone. The door slid shut on their giggles.

“I choose to believe that we are not being observed at the moment, and that we were not just the subject of scrutiny by person or persons unknown.”

“Because that would be embarrassing.”

“Because that would be embarrassing.” She touched and drew herself to him. “And, if we’re going to play games, I’d prefer to do it without an audience.”

His lips had just touched hers when the elevator groaned to a stop and the doors shuddered open. Immediately she turned her head to the side. “It feels cool.” She sniffed. “It smells like wood, and air conditioning, and…people?”

Donovan undid her blindfold. Joann blinked a few times to adjust her eyes, and when she saw where they were she turned to him with a big smile. “Dance House?”

“Dance House.”

Dance House was a studio that offered dance lessons of all kinds, from Latin to swing to ballroom and hustle. They’d been talking about taking lessons for months, and now she eagerly made her way into the studio’s lobby.

“Since I’ve done some swing already,” he said, “I thought it might be a good idea to start there. If you want, we can do the salsa class afterwards, too.”

She stepped into a studio filled with couples. The air inside was dusty and a little warm with excess body heat. Along a side concrete wall, a boom box was set up on a table. CDs lay scattered around it, in and out of jewel boxes. Mirrors lined the wall perpendicular to the windows. The hardwood floor was dull but still shiny in the corners where feet hadn’t scuffed it learning “one-two-cha-cha-cha.”

She turned to him, gold flecks shining in her eyes.

“Swing, salsa; let’s do it all.”

***

“Excuse me, sir, are you Stuart Brandeis?”

Brandeis paused at the bottom of the steps to his Cobble Hill brownstone. The man asking was well dressed, with a kind smile and a bit of a twinkle in his eye. He clutched a messenger bag to his side as though afraid it might be snatched from him at any moment.

Process server?
Brandeis wondered. The Brooklyn court house wasn’t too far from where they stood, and he
had
been having problems with his ex-wife…

“Did Victoria send you? Is this about an alimony payment?” Brandeis asked, his lip curling into a sneer. “Because I told her I was restructuring my mortgage to give her her pound of flesh.”

“No, no, quite the opposite. I’m a representative for Mrs. Brandeis.” He proffered a business card. “She has asked me to approach you and see if you might be interested in reconciliation.”

Brandeis took it and read:

CORNELIUS VALDES

Attorney

“What do you mean, ‘reconciliation’?”

Valdes heard the shift in his voice, saw the anger in his eyes melt to hope.
Perfect.
“If you’d like to come with me, we can discuss the terms she has suggested I offer you.” He gestured for the man to precede him up the street.

Brandeis paused. “What is this, some kind of game? She trying to get more money out of me?”

“I assure you, Mister Brandeis,” Valdes smiled, “this is no game.”

***

Joann had to be at work early the next day, so after dance class and dinner in Tribeca they made their way back to Brooklyn on the Vulcan. Instead of going to her loft, though, Donovan parked outside her building and they strolled to the end of Montague Street, to the Brooklyn Promenade. They held hands as they walked. Below them, cars sped by on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Across the bay, the skyline of lower Manhattan sparkled with a thousand jewels of unextinguished fluorescent tubes, traffic signals and vehicle headlights. Scant clouds allowed most of the city’s ambient light to escape, casting the outlines of the buildings black against a dark, deep purple sky.

“Great night, hunh?” She stopped, leaning back on the iron railing as she turned. “Sorry I have to bring it to an end. Now that we have a partial profile of Charming Man off that camera, I’ve got to interview a lot of the shelter workers again.”

“Somebody has to get the bad guys.” He rested a hand on either side of her. “So Dance House is a date, for at least the next three Wednesdays?”

“At least? At
last
. It’s about time we’re doing this. But why now?”

“School’s over. Now that I’ve got more free time, I’d like to spend it doing something besides writing papers.”

“You don’t want to pick up more bar shifts, make some more money?”

“I may have to,” he felt the ring’s box in his pocket, “but not yet. Besides, that’s not what I mean by ‘wisely.’”

“I hate that you only make good money when you work at night. I miss you.”

“I wish things were different, but…”

“I know, baby, I know.” She touched his face, letting her hand linger on his cheek. “We’re building something, and it takes time. I get that. Sometimes, though, the lack of together time thing just sucks.”

“A lot,” he agreed.

“Which is why I’m glad we’re doing Dance House.”

“Yep.” He did a standing push-up, slowly drawing himself closer to her. Her breath trickled out like venting steam. His lips touched hers. “Actually, I have a confession to make. As much as I enjoyed tonight, and look forward to the next few weeks, the free time thing isn’t the only reason I wanted to take dance lessons now.”

“Okay.” She kissed him back, softly at first. “Then why else?”

“I want to be able to dance well.” He kissed her harder as he reached into his pocket. “At our wedding.”

Her eyes flew open.

The ring attracted every bit of the Manhattan skyline, intensified it, and released it back to the stars. A round, 1.25 carat diamond sat in a platinum cathedral mount, accented by tiny diamonds. The band, also platinum, was squared at the edges, adorned by intricate, unobtrusive engraving.

“Magical” barely does it justice
, he thought.

Nothing had prepared him for the emotions surging through his body. Now that the moment was here, it was different, infinitely different and better than any scenario he had imagined. He caught his breath, and when he spoke he was surprised at how even his voice was. He got down on one knee.

“Joann Clery, will you marry me?”

She blinked in surprise. Heat spread over her skin, flushing it pink. Her eyes became very serious and she examined every inch of his features.

“Oh my God.”

She pulled him to his feet. Her entire body shivered and she leaned into his embrace. He held her, feeling her offer herself to him heart and soul, before finally raising her head to meet his eyes.

“Yes.”

She wiped away tears, smiled and kissed him fiercely.

“Let’s go celebrate,” she purred.

So they did.

FOUR

PRESSURE MAKES DIAMONDS

N
ow that the engagement was official, Donovan felt free to enjoy it. Unfortunately, he was scheduled for back-to-back doubles the following two days, and he barely saw Joann, who was herself busy with the Dinkins Shelter case. After working almost thirty-three hours in those two days, he finally made it to Black King, the Irish pub around the corner from Polaris, for drinks with the other bartenders.

“Shots,” Guzman announced. He was a tall, thin Mexican with a big square head and thick black hair. He passed around shot glasses full of something brown. “Maybe we can drink some sense into you.”

Corey, the youngish manager Donovan liked best of his bosses, snorted. “Have you
seen
his fiancée?” He raised his glass. “
Salud
, Donovan. If she has a sister…”

“Only child,” Donovan said. “Sorry.”

Four shots (so far) of Jack Daniel’s had been a good start, and when Guzman had pulled out a blunt of White Widow, Donovan lit it up with no hesitation. He enjoyed getting high, especially after working crazy shifts. Joann rarely partook anymore—as a member of the NY Bar, drug testing was always a possibility for her—and since Donovan really didn’t like to get high alone, an opportunity like this was an engagement gift from above.

Jools, the petite blonde who had come by Polaris for her check and decided to join them, cocked her head. “Are you getting married tonight?”

Donovan took a second to process the question. “Tonight? No.”

“Then how come a priest just came in?” She giggled and pointed. “And he’s coming over here.”

Donovan turned in his seat. “Father Carroll? Father Carroll! We’re drinking a toast to the engagement. Want a shot?”

The priest declined with a polite smile. “No, thank you. Do you have a moment, Donovan?”

Jools and Guzman both made faces. “Donovan’s in trouble!” she giggled.

“Feel free to employ capital punishment, Father,” Guzman said. “This young man has strayed from the path of righteousness, and must be corrected.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” the priest said dryly.

Donovan got up and followed him outside. “What’s up?”

“A situation has arisen.” Father Carroll looked him over. “Are you capable of functioning?”

“Hey, I just worked four shifts in a row
and
I’m celebrating my engagement. I’m allowed to partake.”

“I’m not judging, I’m asking you to assess whether you’re able to participate in something very important and probably quite disturbing.” He gestured at the cab that waited curbside. “Are you able?”

The four shots attacked his stomach lining. “What are you talking about? What happened?” Fear wrenched him. “Is it Joann?”

The priest blinked. “Oh. Good heavens, no. No, Francis has asked for you.”

“Sergeant Fullam?”

“Are you able?”

“Being high doesn’t mean I’m a giggling moron. I’m just not as…focused.” Donovan took a couple of deep breaths. The weed’s THC made his skin buzz. “Sorry. Give me a few seconds.” He ran to the twenty-four hour deli down the block and bought himself a pack of cupcakes and a bottle of water. “Sweet things kill my high,” he explained, climbing into the back seat of the cab. “It’s why I try not to eat when I smoke. And drinking gives me dry-mouth.”

Father Carroll watched him with a tolerant expression. “If you say so.”

The cab headed south on Lexington. “What happened?” Donovan asked. “Where are we going?”

“Brooklyn. Red Hook. Francis believes he’s located the Capricorn victim.”

“He has?”

“Hanging in a burned out building, missing its knees.”

“Capricorn the Goat is death by hanging? How do you think that works?”

“I’ve no idea. He would like us to see the site, to perhaps find something traditional police eyes might not see or understand.”

Donovan took a bite of cupcake. The cab made the left turn from Lexington onto 42
^nd
Street, heading east towards the FDR. “He asked for me?”

“He was impressed with what you did at the morgue, and how you figured things out.”

“Wow. Better not screw this up.” Donovan chewed and shrugged. “Sorry. I’m not being flip. I guess I’m a little…surprised. I mean, we did those field trips for parapsychology class to ‘haunted’ sites, but this is beyond that.
Way
beyond.”

“It is. Can you handle it?”

“Hell yes.” He grinned. “This is usually Joann’s thing, going to crime scenes and working with cops. I always thought it might be kind of cool, but—”

“‘Cool’?” Father Carroll raised an eyebrow. He paused. “It reads differently than it lives, I’ll grant you that.”

“Guess I’m about to find out.” Donovan took the second cupcake from the package. “As long as I can help without being part of the actual system. I mean, I see the crap Joann is taking for this whole Dinkins thing and it kills me. I don’t know that I have the political savvy to handle it as well as she does.”