The Frenzy Way (7 page)

Religious extremism
, Mace thought. Nothing frightened him more.

“The contradictory designs intrigue me. It’s as if this sword links one inquisition to the other.”

“I’m told our sword is made entirely of silver. Is that significant?”

“Not really. Silver swords date back to the Romans and the Vikings.” Seeing the disappointed look on Mace’s face, he added, “I’m sorry I haven’t been more helpful. This is an extremely unusual weapon. I’d love to study the actual piece.”

Mace ignored the plea. “Can you recommend anyone else whomight be able to identify it?”

“No one on this continent knows more about historical blades than I do, and I’m telling you, there’s no record of any sword like this.”

Patty stood waiting outside a West 10th Street apartment with Willy at her side. The sound of a trumpet rose from the building’s courtyard and through an open window near the stairway. The apartment door opened, and a young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes peered out at them, the one-bedroom apartment’s clean white walls, adorned with artwork, visible behind her.

“Yes?” she said. Her expensive-looking sweater hugged her figure in all the right places.

Ten years earlier, as a student at City College juggling two jobs and living at her parents’ Queens home to save expenses, Patty would have begrudged the woman her beauty and pampered lifestyle. “Sarah Harper?”

The woman looked from one serious-faced detective to the other. “Who’s asking?”

Patty pulled back her jacket, revealing the gold shield clipped to her belt. “Detective Lane. This is Detective Diega. We’d like to ask you some questions about Terrence Glenzer.”

Sarah furrowed her perfectly plucked brow. “Professor Glenzer? Is he okay?”

“We’re from Manhattan Homicide South,” Willy said in a soft voice.

It took a moment for Sarah’s expression to show that the meaning of his words had taken root. “Homicide? Oh, God.” She looked as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Then her eyes widened. “Did someone kill Professor Glenzer?”

“I’m afraid so,” Patty said.

The college student’s complexion paled. “When?”

“Last night in his condominium.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry to hear it. Why do you want to speak to me? I barely knew him.”

“You’re one of the few students who didn’t drop his Native American mythology course over the summer.”

Sarah shrugged. “Yeah, well, I considered it, believe me.”

“Why’s that?”

“I took that class because I needed to make up an elective, and I thought it would be interesting and an easy grade. But from Day One Professor Glenzer was just too intense, you know?”

“Tell us,” Willy said.

“He was paranoid, like a drug addict. He kept insisting that ‘evil’ was lurking in our midst. Not a social or metaphysical evil—his words—but an actual presence. A ‘beast,’ he called it.”

“How did the other students react to this?”

“Like you said, most of them dropped the class. I don’t blame them. I would have dropped it too if I didn’t need it to attend school this semester.”

“Did Professor Glenzer have any arguments with anyone in class?” Willy said.

“Oh no. He was a sweet man, sort of frail. No one in the class would argue with him.”

“Did he have problems with anyone?”

Sarah considered the question. “No, not really. I mean, he wasn’t happy with his publisher because they refused to release his new book. He made that clear when he gave us copies to use in class. I once saw him trying to give some away on St. Mark’s Place too. He claimed he owned the only weapon that could protect us from this creature he claimed existed.”

Patty glanced sideways at Willy, who shrugged. “What did he call this weapon?”

Sarah stared at them, eyes shining.

“Miss Harper—?”

“He called it the Blade of Salvation.”

Patty’s heart skipped a beat. That had to be the sword! “Did he say what this blade was?”

Sarah pondered the question, then shook her head. “Not that I recall. I’m sorry. I wish I could be more help to you.”

Patty handed her a business card. “You’ve actually been very helpful. If you think of anything else—no matter how silly you might think it is—please call me.”

Looking at the card, Sarah said, “I will.” Then she stepped back into her apartment and closed the door.

As the locks tumbled, Willy said, drawing out each word in disbelief, “The Blade of Salvation.”

Don Gibbons, Mace’s sergeant at Manhattan Homicide South, reported for duty at 5:00
PM
, one hour later than the four-to-twelve shift because he remained on the premises until 1:00
AM
when the Detective Bureau Manhattan shut down. He and Landry alternated running the day and night shifts on a weekly basis, and they shared the office adjacent to Mace’s. As soon as Gibbons entered the squad room, Mace brought him into his office and briefed him on the Glenzer homicide.

Gibbons, a twenty-year veteran of the NYPD and a blue-collar type possessing neither the intention to retire nor the desire to rise above his current rank, raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Looks to me like the work of a grizzly bear, except a bear shits in the woods.” He often provided Mace with a salty counterbalance to Landry’s methodical and somewhat verbose nature.

Exiting Mace’s office an hour later, the two men approached Patty, who sat at her desk keying in a report on her computer. “Anything?”

“Not on any Blade of Salvation,” Patty said.

“Where’s Willy?”

Patty remained focused on her flat-screen monitor. “Taking a nap in interview room C.”

Mace picked up the late edition of the
New York Daily News
from her desk and showed the headline to Gibbons. Skinwalker stretched across the page over a color photo of Glenzer’s building. He had already skimmed the brief article, which made little more than a passing reference to the American Indian legend, online. The article mined more sensational interest from the victim’s missing head. Glancing out the windows, he saw the orange sunlight on the granite building across the street growing darker. “How’d you do with the students?”

Patty blew air out of her cheeks and gestured at the computer screen. “I’d say we got ahold of 60 percent of Glenzer’s students for the last two years and 90 percent of the ones for this semester.”

“Not bad.” Mace scanned the bull pen. “Hand the rest over to Morrissey.”

Patty looked across the room at James Morrissey, seated at his desk. Hungry for promotion, the chunky detective sat engrossed in the manual for the sergeant’s exam. “Morrissey’s an idiot. I’d rather finish this myself.”

“I’m sure you would. But you and Willy have been on for eighteen hours. If you don’t go home and get some sleep you’re going to be useless to me tomorrow.”

“The first twenty-four hours—”

“I know all about the first twenty-four hours. I also know about exhaustion. And I need you on your game.”

Her gaze darted to Gibbons. “Sarge—”

“Don’t look at me, kid. I’d never disobey a direct order from my captain.”

Sighing, she nodded. “Okay, you’re right. Both of you. I’ll go wake Willy.” Rising, she offered them a tired smile. “Good night.”

“Straight to bed,” Mace said.

“Yes, Captain.”

They watched her head in the direction of the interview rooms; then Mace returned to his office.

Mace used the drive home to unwind from the day’s events. His shirt collar made his neck itch, and he wanted to change into some casual clothes. When he entered the apartment around 9:00
PM
, he saw that Cheryl had left his dinner on the table, covered in foil. He went into the bedroom, where she sat reading in bed.

“Hey,” he said as he peeled off his jacket. “Sorry about dinner.”

Smiling, she lowered her book. “How do you feel?”

He loosened his tie. “Beat. I’m getting—”

“Way too old for this shit?”

Grunting, he changed into gym shorts and an NYPD T-shirt. “How was your day?”

“Better than yours, I bet. We’d already wrapped when we got the news.”

He rotated his shoulders, then twisted his trunk. “What news is that?”

“Werewolves are stalking Manhattan.”

“You don’t say?”

“They have an appetite for batty old college professors.”

“Your sources are good.”

“Care to comment?”

He shook his head. “I have no comment.”

“Surprise, surprise. Such a good police captain.”

Mace had known Cheryl as a TV reporter for New York One News. Sexual tension developed between them during the high-profile serial killer case that had catapulted his stock in the department, and they dated for a year before he proposed. When they decided to start a family, Cheryl took a less visible position behind the scenes of a local talk show, which enabled her to work a more humane schedule. Her reporter’s instincts made her a good producer, often to Mace’s consternation.

He went into the kitchen, switched on a jazz station, and nuked his cold pasta in the microwave. After he finished eating, he washedthe dishes, then poured himself a glass of red wine and stood at the living room window with the curtains open. A full moon shone down on the Upper East Side condominiums that rose high into the air, lights twinkling in the deepening darkness. Six years ago, Rodrigo Gomez, the Full Moon Killer, had murdered five strippers over two months. Somewhere out there, at least one new predator lurked in the darkness.

Mace crawled into bed, and Cheryl closed her book and cuddled with him. He slid his hand over her belly, which had become his habit.

“I think it’s a boy,” Cheryl said.

“Oh yeah?”

She nodded. “If I’m right, I want to name him Vincent.”

Mace waited several seconds before answering. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a nice gesture, but I would think of Vince every time I looked at him. It wouldn’t be fair to the child or me.”

“How about as his middle name?”

“Maybe.”

“I want him baptized.”

Mace refrained from voicing his opinion of the church. “I know you do.”

“And?”

“We’ll baptize him.”

She kissed him. “I love you.”