Ghosts of Manhattan (28 page)

But most disturbing of all, Jimmy's lips had been crudely stitched shut with coarse black twine. Clearly, someone hadn't liked what Jimmy had had to say.

The Ghost shook his head in abject dismay. It smelled like the man had shit himself, too. Not surprising, really. The Ghost looked around, trying to get a sense of what had happened there, in that room, of who had done this to Jimmy. He had his suspicions, of course, and they proved well founded; on the kitchen counter he found a pile of Jimmy's photographs, heaped upon the envelope that had once contained them, and on top of those two perfect Roman coins, of the sort the Ghost had found earlier on the seat of his abandoned car.

He looked back at Jimmy, at those terrible, bruised lips, wired painfully shut. He wouldn't be spilling any more secrets, that was for sure. And if he had known what had become of Celeste, wellsomeone had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep him from sharing that secret.

The Ghost put his hands on either side of the grimy sink and leaned over, spewing forth a stream of gaudy vomit, his body wracking as he coughed up the remains of yesterday's meal. He felt giddy and light-headed. He stood there for a moment, forcing himself to breathe. Then, after it was over, he ran the tap, washing the coal dust off his hands and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He noticed he was shaking.

There was little he could do for Jimmy, now. The man had made his own bed, and now, alas, he was lying in it. But there was one thing, one small gesture. The Ghost took the bundle of glossy photographs and threw them into the sink. Jimmy had wanted to keep his private life a secret. He could oblige that much, at least. When the police came later the whole place would be turned over. There was no need for them to find these. He wouldn't have people laughing at the dead snitch. Not for this. Not for a few dirty photographs of clockwork women.

He reached into his pocket for a cigarette. He lit it and dropped it into the sink. The flames soon caught the crisp paper, and a few moments later, all that was left was a pile of smoldering ash.

With a heavy heart, the Ghost quit the apartment, pulling the door shut behind him. Donovan could send his men down later, clean up the whole sorry mess. For now, though, he needed to focus, needed to concentrate on finding a way to help Celeste. She was in grave danger, and he intended to wreak vengeance on the men who had put her there.

onovan was growing impatient. The Ghost had been gone for hours-three, at least-and while the other man had asked him to wait for his return, Donovan thought that there were better things he could be doing with his time than lounging around, staring out of the window at the hazy Manhattan morning. He'd already washed and bathed, eaten a small breakfast, checked over his wounds.

The fragment of glass embedded in his thigh had been a trifling matter, and he'd extracted it the previous evening upon their return to the Ghost's apartment. Now the leg was sore, but the pain was nothing in comparison to his shoulder, which still throbbed with a dull ache, pulling painfully when he moved it. He supposed it was remarkable, really, that they had managed to get out of the museum alive, both of them relatively unscathed.

But what had they learned? That was the question plaguing the inspector. Perhaps nothing that would help them in their quest to bring down the Roman. Yes, of course, it was damning evidence-the Roman's men had stormed the Met, a national institution, wreaked havoc, and destroyed hundreds, if not thousands, of priceless relics in their efforts to steal one of them. But to what end, what purpose? What did the Roman want with an ancient marble wheel? The Ghost didn't seem to know, and nor did the curator, who Donovan had questioned quietly and firmly in the back of the Ghost's car as they drove him home.

Donovan cursed himself. If only he'd been fit, perhaps they wouldn't have gotten away. Perhaps now they would have a lead. As it was, he was left stewing in the vigilante's apartment, wondering what was in store for them next. Donovan didn't like that thought much. He could hardly believe how things had changed in the course of the last few days; how his life had been so easily disrupted, threatened, knocked out of sync. He only hoped that Mullins had managed to get the message to Flora, telling her to take an extended break, to go somewhere with Maud, to visit another state. He'd promised to tell her more when it was over. He hoped she would trust him. She needed to trust him, at least until he could bring this whole matter to an end, once and for all. After that ... after that they could figure it all out together.

Donovan fingered the butt of the handgun in his jacket pocket. There was one thing he could be doing: he could check on Mullins. After all, it was likely Mullins would have been roped in that morning to clean up the mess at the museum, and Donovan felt he owed the man an explanation. The Commissioner would have to wait. But Mullins deserved to know what was going on.

He fixed his resolve. That was what he would do. He would leave a message for the Ghost at the apartment, then head to the precinct and search out the sergeant. He was unsure why the other man had left in such a hurry that morning-something relating to the call he had made-but he guessed the Ghost would return later with news.

Heaving himself up out of the chair, he scratched a note on a piece of old card and propped it on the table beside the half-drunk bottle of bourbon before taking his leave.

He knew the Ghost would find it there.

The precinct building was a hive of industry as Donovan entered through the revolving doors. He wondered if the Commissioner had seconded more hands from the other nearby precincts to cope with the mess his inspector had been leaving in his wake. Men in blue uniforms milled about with apparent purpose; people he didn't recognize, unfamiliar and, therefore, somehow suspicious. But Donovan was oddly comforted by the sight of Richards, the precinct administrator, who stood behind an oak desk in the lobby, coolly regarding the inspector over the top of the shifting rabble.

Donovan approached the desk, realizing for the first time since leaving the apartment that he was still wearing the suit from the day before, now torn and bloody, and slept in. God, he was losing his edge.

Richards seemed to recognize his discomfort and gave him an appraising look, as if weighing up how to approach the impending conversation. "Good morning, sir," he said hesitantly. "Is ... everything alright?"

Donovan sighed. "Yes, Richards, everything is quite alright."

"Very good, sir." The man sounded unconvinced, but wisely left it at that.

"Is Mullins here?"

"Yes, sir. Upstairs."

Donovan grinned. "Thank you, Richards." He was relieved that the man hadn't deemed it appropriate to ask any penetrating questions. He wasn't yet sure how he would go about answering them.

He left Richards at the desk and crossed the hall, avoiding a gaggle of busy officers who appeared to be bustling around with no apparent purpose other than to create further bustle. He climbed the steps to the second floor, shaking his head. At the top, he pushed his way through the double doors with his good shoulder. They creaked as they swung open, but none of the men inside the large, open-plan office looked up to see who had entered. To a man they were hunched over their desks, wrinkles of concentration etched on their brows. Donovan scanned the faces: Jansen, Green, Hatton, Mullins. He frowned. So who had been sent to the museum?

He crossed to where the sergeant was standing over another man, a brooding expression on his face. Mullins looked up as he heard Donovan's footsteps on the linoleum. "Inspector." He seemed startled. "How are you? Have you heard about the museum?

Donovan gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. "Yes. I was there. It seems I'm having difficulty keeping myself out of trouble at the moment."

Mullins grinned. "I think it's a sure sign you're getting closer, sir." He stepped away from the desk, and together the two men moved to one side so as not to be overheard. "What happened in there?"

Donovan shrugged. "I caught a tip-off. Went there, found them in the act. Bastards got away, though."

"Some of them did." Mullins grinned. It was clear the sergeant was impressed by his late-night exploits. "And the Ghost was there, too ... ? We found traces of his strange ammunition."

"Yes, he was there."

"Was he working with the Roman's men?"

Donovan had to stop himself from glowering at the sergeant. "Have you been down there, Mullins? Seen how many dead mobsters are strewn about the place? The man saved my life more than once. No, he was not working for the Roman. You don't have to trouble yourself about the Ghost."

Mullins looked at the floor, shamefaced. "The Commissioner sent Jefferson down there, sir. I haven't seen it. But I've heard reports, snatches of information from the other men. Sounds like it was carnage."

"It was," Donovan said, morosely. "It was most definitely that." He looked around. The other officers were studiously getting on with their work. "Did you manage to get my message to Flora?"

Mullins nodded. "Yes, sir. All taken care of."

Donovan breathed a sigh of relief. "Have you got any coffee, Mullins?"

"Yes, sir. But first, I have something for you." The sergeant was smiling.

Donovan raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes. I found it."

"Found what?"

"The link. I found the link between the Roman's victims." Mullins beamed up at him, his round face splitting into a wide grin.

Donovan's eyes widened. "Well, man! Spit it out!" He reached for a cigarette. It was the last one in his packet. Mullins frowned at the smell of the sweet smoke as the inspector lit it and sucked impatiently on the filter.

"A power station, sir."

"A what?"

Mullins coughed as Donovan blew smoke in face. "A power station, down in the Battery. That's what links the victims. Well, some of them, anyway. It was Williamson who gave it away. I found paperwork in his office when I started looking through his affairs. I drew a link immediately to Landsworth. Both of them were heavily invested in the construction of a new power station. I checked back, found some of the others were involved in it, too. Their bank records were all the same. Considerable sums of money. Thousands."

Donovan could feel the excitement welling up inside him. A lead, at last! "And it's in the Battery, you say?"

"Yes, sir. It's only just become operational." Mullins was clearly pleased with himself.

"What's the holding company?"

"Well, that's just it, sir. I can't find one. At least, not a corporation. All of the payments and receipts were made out to the same person, transferred into a personal account in the name of Mr. Gideon Reece."

Donovan almost cried out in excitement. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, took a long, thoughtful pull on his cigarette. What did the Roman want with a power station? And why had the investors all been murdered, now that the construction was complete? He had a feeling that the trail was suddenly growing warm once more. He needed to get hold of the Ghost. "Good work, Mullins. I think I need to pay this power station a visit." He looked up at the sergeant, his eyes shining. "Now, if you could just fetch that coffee I'll fill you in on the rest of it ..."

The Ghost's car purred up outside the newly constructed power station in the Battery, stirring the gravel as it slid to a stop. The station itself was a large, gray industrial building: squat and square, with three tall iron turrets erupting from its otherwise flat roof. In the midday light they were silhouetted, and looked to Donovan like three stubby fingers, pointing at the heavens.

Around the building itself, construction materials lay abandoned haphazardly: a pile of stone blocks; wooden batons of varying lengths, now damp from exposure to the sea air; coils and coils of thin wire. Further out, past the building, Donovan could see the harbor. Turquoise water lapped gently at the wooden jetties, parted by the prows of numerous ferries. In the distance, shrouded in hazy fog, was Liberty Island. The imposing statue dominated the landscape for miles around, standing guard over the city, watching.