The 8th Circle (4 page)

He told himself he had too often given it a rest when he and Beth had married and he’d caught a glimpse of that other world, the one rumored to exist behind the doors of gated estates and clubs shrouded in exclusive secrecy. When he’d attacked her father in print, Danny had never used anything he’d learned in those rooms. Beth had looked at it differently. She’d believed he betrayed her. It would always haunt him.

“Excuse me?” Kate looked at him a little oddly. “Are you all right?”

“No. I mean, yes. I’m sorry.” He’d lost track of the conversation.

Kate gestured toward the closet. “What were you looking for?”

“I don’t know. Michael was coming to see me the night he was killed. I guess I feel responsible.”

Her eyes narrowed like she was trying to decide whether or not he was hustling her. At last she fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “I don’t know everything Michael was into, but if I can help, give me a call.”

“That’s very nice of you.” He knew he sounded snarky. “Why did you come here anyway? Did the senator send you?”

“I told you. Michael and I were friends.”

“So you did.”

“As far as I know, he was doing a piece on Philly nightlife. Clubs, restaurants.”

Danny touched the box in his pocket. Michael was working on something more than restaurant reviews, something that most definitely could have gotten him killed. “He didn’t say anything to you? If you were friends, that’s hard to believe.”

“If you were friends with Michael, you know how secretive he could be.” She was annoyed now. The color rose on her cheeks. “Michael also said you could be a real prick.”

“No, he didn’t. You did.” Danny shrugged. “You’re right too. Look, I need to get back.”

Kate blew out a breath. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“You didn’t.”

He started past her, then paused. Something about her face seemed slightly askew, as if the skin were pulled a little too tight or
she’d undergone extensive cosmetic surgery—much more than a nose job. Weird. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-six or so.

“Is something wrong?”

Christ, he felt like an asshole. “It was nice meeting you.”

She tucked her card into his breast pocket, and the faint aroma of lavender and vanilla reached out to him and drew him a step closer. For a moment, she stood with her hand resting on his lapel, and he wanted to lay his hand on top of hers but could only stand frozen, lost inside her gaze. The ghosts in her eyes. The secrets and sorrows. Whoever she was now, Kate Reid had led a different life once. He could almost see the outline of another woman just under her skin. It was her business if she wanted to run away from her old life, not his, but it made him curious.

Her mouth curved into a tiny smile. “Give me a call. I’m not so bad once you get to know me, and I might be useful. You never know.”

D
ark all around. Cold concrete beneath his knees. Justin’s hands were chained above his head. This wasn’t the dungeon, was it? Not the dungeon.

The door opened. Light snapped on, blinding him for a second. Then the thin, blond man appeared. He was nightmare in a green leather tunic, tights, and weird booties; sparkling green covered his shallow eyelids, and black rimmed his eyes.

“Poor Justin,” the blond man said. “Do you know who I am? I’m Mason. I’ve come to set you free.”

He slid his hands down Justin’s cheeks, his fingers long, white, and smooth like they didn’t have knuckles. Justin wanted to puke. Nobody kept you chained up naked if they were going to set you free, especially not freaks like this.

“But you aren’t a very nice little boy, are you? Turning tricks is such a nasty business. I’m afraid Congressman Powell is tired of you.”

Who the fuck was Congressman Powell? No one used names at the club. It was just sex. Baggy old men. Sometimes a young guy with tight abs. Sometimes a woman with plastic boobs. Sometimes all three. The bodies blended together.

Who gave a shit about them? The needle made them disappear—for a while, anyway. The needle made everything disappear.

Then he remembered the guy in the red silk mask, a regular. The one with the little piggy eyes and sagging girl tits. He wore the feathered, silk G-string and liked the really kinky shit. His mask had come off the other night.

Justin bit into his tongue.

“You’re young, aren’t you?” Mason cooed. “How old are you, darling?”

He tried to speak, but no sound came from his dry throat.

“You remind me of someone, you know. He has blue eyes, too.” Mason leaned close, pushed his fingers through Justin’s hair. “Such lovely eyes. You’ve seen too much, my pet.”

Mason snapped his fingers, and Justin heard the familiar opening guitar riff of a metal song. It was old shit, but it used to be one of his favorites because the video was so badass.

“Do you like this song, Justin?”

Justin nodded. He tasted blood in his mouth.

“Normally, I prefer Ravel, but this is a special evening. Do you like the fairies?”

Justin didn’t know the answer, and his eyes stung with tears. Stuff like this didn’t happen in real life. It was a video on some creepy horror channel. But it wasn’t. He was in some dark place where prayers wouldn’t help.

Mason spread out his arms and threw back his head. He stood for a moment with his eyes shut, then turned to the table beside him. Justin saw the flash of something metallic.

“I’m the Sandman,” Mason said.

“Please.” Justin managed to croak out the word.

Mason’s breath caressed his neck. “Don’t be afraid, Justin. Tonight, we’re off to Never Never Land.”

T
wo fat pigeons sat on the stone wall, their feathers ruffling in the wind. Congressman Teddy Powell had the sensation they were watching him. Stupid. He shook off the feeling and handed his ticket to the valet.

Weird to have valet parking at a wake, though you’d hardly call this a wake. Michael Cohen was already buried.

Shiva. Jews had some funny rituals. Like covering the mirrors. What was with that?

He wouldn’t have come today, except he had to pay his respects. Andy Cohen would go through the guest book and note who came and who didn’t, even though he’d treated that kid of his like a retard.

He’d seen that fucking Alex Burton. Goddamn bitch reporter. He’d like to wring her neck. Then to top it off, Danny Ryan showed up. If anyone deserved a run of bad luck, it was that sanctimonious prick. Teddy wasn’t sure what he hated more: the phony-defender-of-the-little-guy bullshit or the watch-out-for-the-political-weasel screeds Ryan used to write. He looked like hell now. He must’ve lost close to twenty pounds, and it wasn’t like he was a big guy to start. Maybe he’d lose so much weight, he’d just disappear.

The valet delivered his Caddy, and Teddy got in. He wondered if the asshole expected a tip. Fuck him, if he did. Who tipped at a wake?

He pulled around the circular drive toward the gates, and one of the pigeons took off. The bird flew low and swooped in right front of him. Teddy slammed his brakes.

Goddamn birds. Teddy saw the valet smirking in his rearview mirror. He hit the gas pedal and roared out into the street.

Teddy bounced over the cobblestones of Germantown Avenue, then cut back through Mt. Airy to get to Lincoln Drive. He loved the Drive, especially when there wasn’t much traffic, like this evening. It was like a giant serpent twisting and turning alongside Wissahickon Creek.

Maybe he wouldn’t go home just yet. He could stop in town for a drink or two. His wife didn’t care. She had her career as Mrs. Congressman.

He wanted to go to the club, but they’d cut him off from the special rooms since the incident with that kid. Assholes. As if they cared about a fifteen-year-old street whore.

He was a sweet boy, though. Justin. The best he’d ever had.

Red light.

Whoa, he almost went right through the intersection. Brakes felt a little sluggish, or maybe he hadn’t been paying attention. Long day.

A black Porsche pulled beside him, and Teddy was tempted to roll down his window to hear the low purr of its idling engine. Before the light changed, the driver glanced at him and grinned. He inclined his head and pointed forward, and the Porsche leaped ahead. Furious, Teddy pounded the accelerator.

The speedometer inched up close to sixty. A little too fast, but he didn’t care as he flew past trees and houses. Still, the rear lights of the Porsche pushed farther ahead. Goddamn it. A warning light glowed on the control panel, but Teddy kept his eyes on the Porsche.

The traffic light was changing from yellow to red, and Teddy floored the gas. The Caddy lifted slightly from the road. Damn, he was just like Steve McQueen in
Bullitt
. Too fucking cool.

The road made a sharp curve to the right just before the Henry Avenue Bridge. Dammit, he forgot this curve. The Porsche slid through it easily, but something was wrong with his goddamn wheels. The back end spun out, and Teddy slammed the brakes. Nothing.

The rear end smashed into the guardrail. Teddy cranked the wheel, and the car careened sideways and then went airborne, rolling down toward the creek. He could hear his father talking about the Romans and how they’d built arches. He could see Justin, that pretty young face, those wide, blue eyes. The kid could have been a model. He probably hadn’t even recognized Teddy; his mask had only slipped for a second and—Christ, he was going to die under the suicide bridge. Why?

The Caddy slammed into the ground, and Teddy jolted forward. The air bags exploded into him, grainy particles swirling through the air.

The car rocked back and forth on its roof.

Engulfed in the airbags, Teddy couldn’t move, couldn’t see, but he was alive. He smelled gasoline and heard the rush of the water close by. It was going to be all right. He just had to get out of this crumpled mess of a car.

Then he heard a soft whump, like a sack of flour being ripped apart.

Shit.

*

The driver of the Porsche continued down the Lincoln Drive and then swung onto Ridge Avenue East and back up Midvale to park on the campus of Philadelphia University. He pulled on a pair of sunglasses and walked to the Henry Avenue Bridge, where a plume of black smoke rose in the air. A small group had gathered to stare down at the valley below.

“What happened?” the driver said to a pair of young guys who looked like students.

“Oh, man. You missed it. There was a massive crash a few minutes ago,” said a tall kid with bright-orange hair tipped with purple. He looked like a pumpkin on a stick.

“Really? A crash?”

“No, dude. That car flew,” said the second kid. Dark haired, medium build, he might have been normal enough, except for his mass of piercings. Goddamn freaks. The driver would have happily tossed them both over the bridge, but he didn’t work for free.

“A one-car crash?” He peered over the edge. All he could see were smoke, flames, and a couple of cop cars. The scream of the fire engines announced their impending arrival, but Teddy Powell was already a roasted pig. “Geez, I hope they got whoever was in there out.”

“I don’t think so, man,” said the pumpkin head. “That car must have been going a hundred miles an hour to explode like that.”

“I’ll bet that was something.”

“We didn’t actually see it,” the dark-haired kid said. “But we heard it. I think the whole world heard it.”

The driver nodded. He drifted back into the crowd and sauntered back to the Porsche. Too bad his next stop was the chop shop, but details were details, and someone might have noticed his car.

Now he could report that the congressman with the big mouth was toast. That was the penalty for being a dumbass. Powell had cost them valuable merchandise. He had broken the rules. There was a price to be paid.

D
anny almost never took Valley Forge Road through the park, but this afternoon, he did. He pulled over into a turnoff and then crossed the covered bridge by foot to the other side of the creek. The sky had turned pewter, the air raw. Soon it would probably start to pour, and he was wandering around in the woods.

He followed the path, listening to the murmuring creek as he walked. Beth had come this way. The state cops had said she’d lost control on the twisting road. The Jeep had hit a low barrier, flipped, and lost a wheel, ending up in a crumpled mess in the creek. That afternoon, it had been snowing, and Beth hated driving in it. Black ice? Could something have been wrong with the car? Something the cops missed?

“We’ll take your Jeep,” she’d said.

Danny sagged against a tree. Beth had been driving his Jeep. He used to get death threats all the time, but he’d never taken them seriously. If he didn’t piss people off, he wasn’t doing his job.

Could some nut job have damaged the car? Run her off the road? No, that was insane.

Crouching down, Danny pressed his hands against his forehead. He could smell decay and death, the cold metal odor of the morgue.

The lot of love is chosen
. His mother had whispered that to him as she lay dying. Her beloved Yeats. Her lot was to marry a drunkard, bear him four kids, and die young. His was to choose Beth. He never regretted it. Never. She’d given him Conor.

Inferno
.

Danny picked up a rock and threw it, then another and another. He heard them bounce off trees and splash down into the creek. The wind sighed through the trees, and Danny shivered. Branches scratched at the sky. A crow flew from the woods in a flurry of black wings, its caw piercing the raw air.

*

Novell walked behind Sean McFarland and gazed up at the redbrick facades of the row houses, now turned into apartments, on Pine Street. It was a pleasant neighborhood, filled with little boutiques and restaurants and couples out doing their Christmas shopping.

They reached the correct address, and Sean hit the buzzer. The woman’s voice sounded scratchy and strained after Sean explained who they were and why they had come, but she buzzed them in. She lived on the top floor.

Kate Reid stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, her hair pulled back from her pale face, and her eyes filled with wary curiosity. She wore black, which was fitting. Kate always seemed born to wear black.

When she stepped back to let them enter her apartment, she didn’t look at him or Sean. Maybe because she knew he never appeared bearing good news. Maybe because she wanted to forget they had ever known each other. Novell didn’t blame her in either case.

“Miss Reid,” Sean said, “I know this must be a difficult time for you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She nodded.

“We’re looking into Michael Cohen’s death, and anything you can tell us about him, anything at all, no matter how trivial it might seem, could be helpful.”

Novell gave Sean points. He oozed a certain Boy Scout charm calculated to soothe. He doubted Kate was moved, but at least she
wasn’t cursing. She glanced at Novell for a moment and turned her attention to Sean.

“I knew Michael. I felt sorry for him. He didn’t seem to have a lot of friends.”

Sean tilted his head as if puzzled. “Why do you say that?”

“Michael was a bit different, I guess. He liked to hang out with me because I didn’t judge him.”

“But other people did?”

“I guess. I don’t really know. We didn’t discuss it.”

“Did he mention what he was working on?”

Kate chewed on her lip. “A piece about restaurants.” She stared into the space just beyond Sean’s forehead and motioned to the sofa. “Please. Sit.”

The sofa was expensive. Novell recognized the quality of the creamy leather that enveloped him, and the thick, blue rug with its maroon-and-cream geometric patterns looked pricey as well. In an apartment where the rest of the furniture was comprised of Goodwill specials, these pieces seemed so out of place that it was jarring. Did that matter? Novell wasn’t sure.

“How did you meet Michael?” Sean asked.

“He’s a reporter, and I work for a senator,” she said in a tone with just enough calculated breeziness.

“But he wasn’t a political reporter.”

“No. If I recall correctly, I met him at the opening of a community center or something like that. I’m not sure Senator Harlan was even there.”

She’d turned herself into a neatly packaged professional woman. She deserved a good life. It seemed small to begrudge her one. Novell rubbed his mouth. He’d become a sour old bastard. A scotch would taste good right now. Several, lined up like dutiful soldiers.

“So when did you last see Michael?” Sean said.

“Oh. I’m not sure. Sometime last week. He liked to drop by to watch movies. Michael liked movies. Old sci-fi, slasher flicks, gory stuff.”

“Not your cup of tea.”

She shrugged. “I guess I’m more of a rom-com girl.”

Novell cleared his throat. That was a laugh. Kate didn’t believe in love, and she’d thrown in her lot with one of the worst pieces of shit in the Senate.

“So you didn’t talk to him or hear from him the day he died?” Novell said.

Kate narrowed her eyes and looked at him. “Why would I?”

Neither an affirmative nor a negative. Novell wondered if she’d learned her technique from Senator Harlan. Kate would be difficult to crack, but he’d figure out a way.

*

“Impressions?” Novell said when they were heading out of the city.

Sean hesitated for a few seconds before he answered. “I don’t know. You ever meet a witness who says all the right things and seems to cooperate but something seems off?”

Novell nodded.

“Maybe it’s because she just came from Michael Cohen’s funeral and didn’t want to talk about him. But she feels wrong. She hung out with him, but she seemed so detached.”

“Maybe they weren’t that close.” Novell figured he might as well play devil’s advocate. Not that Kate needed one.

“Maybe, but something’s off. She lives in this funky apartment with a four-thousand-dollar sofa and some kind of designer rug. That’s weird.”

“Maybe she saved up for it.”

“If you’re moving up, generally you move in steps. Secondhand sofa to Ikea to a two-thousand-dollar job. You don’t generally go from zero to four thousand in one leap. And that rug must have cost at least eight. I’m betting they were gifts.”

“Eight hundred?”

“Eight thousand. My mom’s really into that shit. Believe me, my parents’ house has been redone more times than I can count.”

“Maybe she has rich parents.”

“If she came from money, her clothes would be better.”

Novell almost laughed. Sean had his uses. He was the guy who could tell whether that antique was a genuine or phony. Maybe all kids from rich families were schooled in that. Maybe someone had paid her off. Maybe they were gifts from Michael himself. Novell wasn’t sure if she knew something relevant to Michael Cohen’s death or she was embarrassed by the connection.

“And didn’t you think it was weird she had no personal shit anywhere? Nothing. No picture of mom and dad or boyfriend or a dog, for Chrissake. You ever walk into a place where someone had nothing personal around?”

“Not everyone is sentimental.” As for the personal items, Novell understood that. Kate had nothing personal because she had almost nothing of her life to keep. “We’ll deal with people he saw regularly for now.”

He’d deal with Kate later. She might not know who killed Michael Cohen, but it’s possible she knew why.

*

When Danny pulled into the driveway, Beowulf was waiting at the back door, so he didn’t bother putting the car in the garage. He just unlocked the door and let Beowulf run free. The dog raced straight toward the pond, stopping to pee against his favorite willow tree. Danny followed. There was a lot more gray in Wolf’s coat these days, and he ran much slower, but he’d always be that shivering pup with oversized paws that Danny had scooped from the trash.

Even Beth, who had been constantly exasperated by Wolf’s desire to be a lapdog, would allow him to sleep on the family room sofa.

“Did you train him to put his paw up like that?” she’d said when Wolf followed her into the room one day and sat in front of her with his paw out.

“Are you kidding? He barely listens to me.” It was a lie. Danny had spent weeks teaching Wolf that trick. But Beth got used to having him snuggle against her on the sofa. She never did lift the upstairs ban, but she’d give him strips of beef and buy him
special bones from her organic butcher. That was the side she had kept hidden from the world, the side he loved.

“I don’t know who’s worse, you or that dog,” she’d say as she tossed Wolf a treat from Le Gourmet de Chien, and Danny would pick her up and howl until she laughed. The good days. He didn’t know how they had screwed it all up.

Beowulf came running up to him amid a flurry of honking geese. When Danny squatted down to accept his dog’s affection, Beowulf knocked him over on the damp ground, and for a few moments, they wrestled just like old times. Danny could almost hear Conor giggling, and he jerked up. He took a breath, the memory a shard of glass. Beowulf pushed his head up against Danny’s chest. Danny clung to him for a moment and pulled some leaves out of his thick fur. He had to get himself together.

“Race you back,” Danny said and ran up the hill to the house. He was sweating by the time he reached the back door. Beowulf was there already, waiting.

“Extra hot dogs?” Danny said, and Beowulf pushed ahead of him into the house.

Later, Danny looked at the DVDs he’d gotten from Michael’s place. Porn, shot in low light. From the length and quality of the picture, Danny thought it must have been shot at a sex club, a very kinky one, where the clients wore masks, cloaks, and not much else. They appeared to be mature, but the help seemed young. Too young. He tried to get a better look at a girl in a metal collar being led around the room by two dwarves. She looked no more than sixteen and seemed barely aware of her surroundings.

All stone and marble, the club was like some kind of peculiar cathedral, though it seemed to lack windows, at least in these shots. Either Michael was looking into it or he was participating. Danny knew he should show these discs to Novell, but they might not be connected to Michael’s death. He owed Linda and Andy the truth before he handed these over to the police.

Novell wanted to clear a murder. Danny wanted to find out what the hell Michael was doing and where he was doing it.

His cell phone rang, and he debated answering it until he saw the name on the caller ID. Alex Burton.

“Ryan,” he said.

“Yo, Daniel. We need to talk.”