Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (156 page)

The girl looked down, stared at the corner of the bill for a few seconds, then glanced up at Eve. “I don’t need it.”

Eve was shocked. Street kids did not turn down money. Something else was at work here. She could not imagine what it might be. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want the money. I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

A long pause. The girl nodded.

Eve put the bill back in her pocket. She glanced around the restaurant. No one was watching. No one ever did at the all-nighters. She glanced back at the girl. “What can I do for you?” she asked. “You have to let me do something for you.”

The girl drummed her fingers on the countertop for a few seconds, then picked up Eve’s cheeseburger, wrapped it in a paper napkin, shoved it in her pocket. She also grabbed a handful of Equal packets. She spun on her stool, seemingly ready to bolt, then stopped, looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me,” she said. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. Her face was a mask of fear. Or maybe it was shame.

“What’s that?”

“You can kill him.”

T
HREE THIRTY
.

The huge house was on a quiet street. It looked just as the girl had described it—overgrown with weeds, tangled with shrubbery, gnarled with dying trees. Vines hung from the gutters; dead ivy clung to the north side like black veins. Three stories in height, clad in dark orange brick, it squatted on a large corner lot, all but hidden from the street. A stone balcony wrapped around the second floor, looming over a crumbling stone porch. Four chimneys probed the night sky like a thumbless hand.

Eve circled the block twice, out of caution, habit, training. She parked fifty feet from the gated driveway, killed the engine and headlights. She listened, waited, watched. Nothing moved on the street.

Three fifty.

Eve flipped open her cell phone, and before she could stop herself she pressed the number, speed-dialing it for the first time. It was a mistake, but she did it anyway. The line rang once, twice. Eve’s finger hovered over the red end button.

A few seconds later, the phone on the other end clicked on. A lifetime went by.

“Hi,” Eve finally said.

F
IVE MINUTES LATER
Eve clicked off. She had said much more than she had intended, but she felt good, strong. Cleansed. She tapped her right front jeans pocket, where her courage lived. She took out the pill vial, shook out two Valium. She uncapped the pint of Wild Turkey, sipped from it, capped the bottle, looked around.

This small section of Philadelphia had a neighborhood name, the way almost all sections of Philadelphia did, but this one wouldn’t come to her. It was a small enclave of old, hidden houses, just west of the Oak Lane Reservoir.

She stepped out of the car, into the torrid, cloudless night. Philadelphia was quiet. Philadelphia dreamed.

Eve crossed the street, walked down the sidewalk toward the corner, skirting the iron fence. Beyond the fence the huge house loomed in the darkness, its dormers rising into the sky like devil’s horns. Tortured trees obscured the walls.

As she got closer she saw lights in the windows on the first floor. She reached a gate, pushed on it. It moaned. It was almost a human sound. She pushed again, slipped through.

When she stepped onto the grounds, the feeling overwhelmed her. She felt it,
smelled
it. Evil dwelled here. Her heart raced.

She slowly made her way through the tall grass, moving ever closer; the undergrowth, the bushes and weeds and wildflowers, seemed to grow around her. A large evergreen stood twenty feet from the house. She stepped behind it.

The house was massive. It appeared to be a pastiche of architectural styles—Queen Anne, Italianate, Gothic revival. A half-round tower graced the right side. A room on the second floor appeared to be candlelit. Chalky shadows danced on the white sheer curtains. As she drew closer, Eve heard classical music.

She took a few more steps, stopping fifteen feet from the dining room window. The drapes were open. Inside a dozen candles flickered. She could see the buffet and hutch and sideboard, all heavy antiques, all highly polished. On the walls were enormous oil paintings; hellish, Boschian scenes. There were also a pair of large portraits of a dark-haired man with sinister, intense eyes, a Van Dyck goatee. No one stirred.

Eve circled the mansion to the east. There she found a small gazebo, a pair of stone benches covered in ivy; a rusted sundial stood guard on a weed-tufted path. As she rounded the back of the house she paused, listened. There was a sound, a low humming sound. Then a snick of metal on metal.

What was it?

She cocked her head, tuning to the noise. It wasn’t coming from the house or the garages to her right. For a moment it reminded her of the old elevators in the building where her father had once had his office. The sound seemed to rattle the ground beneath her feet.

It stopped.

The voice came from behind her.

“Welcome to Faerwood.”

Eve drew the Glock, spun around, the weapon leveled in front of her. A man stood in the small gazebo, about twenty feet away. He was in shadows, but Eve saw he wore a long coat. For a few endless moments he did not move or say another word.

Eve slipped her finger inside the trigger guard. Before she could respond, a bright yellow light shimmered overhead. She glanced at the window on the second floor. It was barred. The curtains parted to reveal a silhouette, a girl with narrow shoulders and long hair. Eve looked back at the man.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she asked.

The man stepped into the moonlight. He was not as big as she had expected. She had anticipated a hulking ogre. Instead, he was sleek and lithe, almost elegant. “Yes,” he answered.

He slowly raised his right hand, palm upward, as if in blessing. In an instant there was a searing flash of flame and a cloud of white smoke.

Eve fired. Round after round pierced the air, the loud reports echoing off the hard brick surface of the old house. She kept pulling the trigger until the magazine was empty.

The night fell still. Eve heard the beating of her heart, felt the horror of what she had just done. She knew she had hit him, dead center in his chest. Four rounds at least. She knew she had to run, but she also knew that she had come too far not to see this to the very end. She holstered her weapon, stepped cautiously to the gazebo. In the moonlight the gun smoke lingered, painting a white haze over this surreal scene. Eve peered over the railing.

He was gone. There was no blood, no torn flesh, no body. It didn’t seem possible—it wasn’t possible—but the gazebo was empty.

It all began to close in on her. The last two months of her life had been pure madness, a summons to the grave. She understood that now. She turned and ran through the tall weeds and grass.

Moments later she reached the iron gate. She pulled on the handle. It wouldn’t budge. It seemed rusted shut. She looked around her, sweat streaming down her face, burning her eyes. Was this where she came in? She couldn’t remember. She had gotten turned around and she had lost her bearings. She pulled again on the gate. It finally moved. She might be able to squeeze through, she thought. She tried, ripping her jeans on the latch. She felt the tear of flesh on her right thigh. The pain was excruciating.

One more hard pull, giving it everything she had. The gate swung free.

And that’s when she felt the hand on her shoulder.

Eve spun, saw his eyes. At first they flashed liquid silver, mercury in the moonlight, then all the fires of hell burned inside them. They were the eyes of her nightmare.

As Eve Galvez reached for the Beretta in her ankle holster she heard the snap of breaking glass. Then came a strong chemical smell. In the instant before her world went black she knew it had all come to a close.

Mr. Ludo.

He had won the game.

| EIGHT |

T
HE
D
ENISON WAS A TEN-STORY
U
SHAPED APARTMENT BUILDING ON
Locust Street in West Philadelphia, near Forty-third Street, not far from the main campus of the University of Pennsylvania. The building was an exhaust-ravaged bronze-colored brick, built in the 1930s, with a recently sandblasted white sandstone arched entrance and electric flambeaux flanking its glass front doors. The long flower beds leading up to the doorway were baked and cracked and arid, populated with wilting impatiens, dying salvia, dead begonias, spent lobelia.

Like the old joke went: In Philly, in August, you couldn’t just fry an egg on the sidewalk, you could fry the chicken.

Jessica and Byrne entered the building, crossed the lobby. It was five degrees cooler in here, which meant the temperature was a frigid eighty-five degrees or so. They had called the address in, checked the results against the roster of tenants in the lobby. Laura A. Somerville lived in apartment 1015. She did not have a police record or DMV record. In fact, she did not have a record of any kind.

For some reason, Jessica expected Laura Somerville to be a middle-aged career woman, a real estate developer, perhaps a lawyer. When the woman opened the door, Jessica was surprised to find that Laura Somerville was a rather elegant older woman, probably in her late sixties: powdered and lightly perfumed, classically attired in pleated gray cotton slacks and white blouse. Silver-coiffed and graceful, she reminded Jessica of one of those women who had looked fifty at forty, but would look fifty the rest of her life. Lauren Bacall type.

Jessica produced her ID and badge, introduced herself and Kevin.

“Are you Laura A. Somerville?” Jessica asked.

“Yes.”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Jessica said. “Would that be okay?”

The woman put a hand to her throat. She looked at a point in space somewhere between the two detectives. Her eyes were a clear sapphire. “Is something wrong?”

“No, ma’am,” Jessica said, hedging the truth. “Just a few routine questions.”

The woman hesitated, then seemed to relax, the tension leaving her shoulders. She nodded, and without another word opened the door fully. She gestured them inside, closed the door behind them.

The apartment was blessedly cool. Almost cold. Jessica wanted to spend the rest of the summer here. Maybe the rest of her life. It smelled of jasmine tea.

“Can I get you something cold to drink?” the woman asked. “Soda? Lemonade?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Byrne said.

Jessica glanced around the small, tastefully decorated apartment. It was a room full of older furniture. In one corner was a hutch full of sparkling figurines; the opposite wall held a long bookcase, crowded with books and boxes that appeared to contain games and jigsaw puzzles.

In front of the burgundy leather nailhead couch was an oak coffee table covered with magazines. Not covered exactly, Jessica realized, but
tiled
with magazines. Geometrically precise. Ten magazines, all opened, perfectly arranged, parallel and squared to each other. Two rows: five up, five below. Jessica looked at them a little more closely and discovered they were all crossword puzzle magazines. A pen lay on top of each, crossing the rectangle of off-white paper and black ink at a precise forty-five-degree angle. Ten magazines, ten pens.

“Wow,” Jessica began. “You must be a serious crossword puzzle fan.”

The woman waved a delicate, long-fingered hand. “
Way
beyond fan, I’m afraid,” she said. She crossed the space, eased herself onto the couch. Jessica noticed that the woman’s nails were done in the French manicure style. “Beyond addiction, even.”

“Beyond addiction?” Jessica asked. As a police officer she had encountered every kind of addict there was—drugs, booze, sex, gambling, porn, food. She didn’t know what the next level could be.

The woman nodded. “You see, the word ‘addiction’ hints at a cure.”

Jessica smiled. She stepped closer, and now saw that the magazines were published in what appeared to be ten different languages. All the puzzles were at some stage of completion.

Jessica was stunned.
Who does this?

She glanced over at her partner, and noticed that Byrne seemed captivated by an elaborate display of brightly colored boxes on the bookshelves.

“I see you are intrigued with my collection,” the woman said to Byrne. “It is not very extensive, but it is well-balanced.”

“I feel like a kid in here.”

Laura Somerville smiled. “As George Bernard Shaw once said, ‘We don’t stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing.’ ”

Men and games, Jessica thought. Her husband Vincent—a fellow PPD detective working out of Narcotics Field Unit North—was exactly the same way.

“What is this?” Byrne held up a beautiful white box. About six inches square, it appeared to be carved ivory. Whatever it was, it was old and delicate, probably a collectible.

The woman crossed the room, gently took the box from Byrne’s big hands—in a manner suggesting that it
was
both rare and expensive—and put it down on a sideboard.

“This is called a tangram puzzle,” she said.

Byrne nodded. “Never heard of it.”

“It is quite intriguing,” the woman said. “One of my passions.” She reached over, turned up a small latch on the box, and gently opened it to reveal seven small, intricately carved pieces of ivory, seven geometric shapes snugly tucked inside: five triangles of varying sizes, one square, one rhombus. Or maybe it was a parallelogram. Jessica hadn’t done all that well in geometry.

“It’s about three thousand years old,” she said. “The puzzle,” she added with a wink. “Not this edition.”

“It’s Chinese?” Byrne asked.

“The origin of the puzzle itself is in some doubt,” she continued. “It is most
likely
Chinese, although many Oriental games were really invented in Europe, then credited to the Orient in an attempt to make them seem more exotic.”

“It’s a jigsaw?”

“No, it’s what’s known as a rearrangement puzzle,” the woman said. “Rearrangement puzzles go back to Loculus Archimedes in the third century
B.C
. Or thereabouts.” She took one of the pieces from the box, held it up to the light. The ivory triangle shimmered small rainbows across the room. “This particular set was purchased at the Portobello Road market in London,” she added. “By an old suitor.”