The Granite Moth

T H E
G R A N I T E   M O T H

A Novel

ERICA WRIGHT

PEGASUS CRIME
NEW YORK LONDON

For my parents

“Sometimes you don't know who you are until you put on a mask.”

—A
LEXANDER
C
HEE
, “G
IRL
”

CHAPTER ONE

S
keletons rattled their way up Sixth Avenue, spreading their green glow over the crowd. Puppeteers on roller skates navigated larger-than-human dummies to the delight of families and college kids alike. The next float seemed to be a pirate ship, if pirate ships came in pink and ghosts came in iridescent thongs. The annual Halloween parade was one of the few times when I felt at home, disguised among countless others disguised. That night I had donned a cheap but bedazzled mask with jeans, and I was feeling underdressed but unexposed. I was wedged between a Batman father taking turns hoisting twin girls onto his shoulders and a twenty-something woman dressed like a sexy raccoon. All had their arms outstretched as a man in an eyepatch and little else tossed bubblegum into the air. A few pieces landed at my sneakers, and I kicked them away.

The mass of people made the New York Police Department nervous, but they weren't my responsibility anymore. It had been three years since I'd turned in my badge to the surprise of exactly no one. If I glanced behind me, I was sure to see two
or three mounted cops, hands patting their horses' necks to soothe them. I kept my eyes forward, trusting my source to find me under the 10th Street sign because it was my only choice. Optionless has never been my favorite date, but sometimes you have to make do. I had arrived two hours before the start of the event to make sure I could snag this prime viewing location, and part of me felt guilty about keeping a real enthusiast from seeing the elaborate homemade creations that kicked off the party night on a gleeful note.

An authentic-looking Marilyn Monroe blew kisses from the top of a birthday cake, complete with forty-five candles. I went onto my tiptoes to see if the Pink Parrot's contribution was visible, yet. Dolly had said that he and his fellow stars would mosey by around 7:30. And by “mosey,” I assumed he meant sit gracefully as fireworks boomed above his head. The Pink Parrot was the premier drag club in the city, and the owner, Lacy “Big Mamma” Burstyn, wouldn't let Dolly's size 12 platform heels touch the pavement, of that much, I was sure.

The sun had long since dipped below the brownstones, and I was glad to be wearing a sweater instead of the bustiers and leotards popular amongst the adult attendants. I'd never lasted this long at the parade, getting tired before the final hurrah, but I was determined to stay until my informant found me. It had taken a few years and a busted face to convince me that I couldn't be a spectator anymore, but color me convinced. Kingpin Salvatore Magrelli may not have been involved with my last case as a private investigator, but that didn't make him any less of a threat. I knew for certain that he had killed a teenage boy for knowing too much about a shipment, and I had a pretty good idea that he'd pulled the trigger plenty of other times. To be honest, I'm not sure how I'd dodged a Magrelli-sized bullet as long as I had.

A cheer managed to carry over the steady din, and I scanned the avenue to see the Pink Parrot extravaganza making its way toward me. It was even grander than I expected: a mini castle complete with turrets, drawbridge, kings, and (of course) queens. The club name was lit in gold, and Dolly was dancing to Cyndi Lauper. He was a good thirty feet away, but I could still see why his performance sold out every night that he headlined. The black gown was more subdued than his co-stars' fuchsia and lime getups, but he downright emanated charm as he waved sparklers and grinned as big as the spotlight. Instead of his favorite blonde bob, he had donned a long brunette wig curled into ringlets. I knew who was responsible for the perfect hairdo and hoped I didn't need to visit Vondya Vasiliev anytime soon. I wasn't her favorite client; even so, I would fight anyone who said she wasn't the best wigmaker on the Atlantic seaboard.

As the Pink Parrot entourage drew closer, I glanced around to make sure I hadn't missed my contact. No one looked promising, and I turned my attention back, startled when I found Dolly's eyes locked on mine. He winked at me, and I shuddered. Not that I wasn't happy to see him, but being recognized still scared me. During my years undercover, I had dreaded the possibility that someone would know me on the streets and reveal my affiliation with the police. In that scenario, a quick death was a pipe dream. After I got out, I was afraid that someone from my past life would hunt me down. I made myself smile at Dolly, but didn't wave. I watched him turn toward the other side of the street and light another sparkler.

“Friend of yours?” a voice whispered at my ear.

I jumped and my hands flew to my mask, but it only took me a second to recognize the deep rumble of my former classmate, now decorated detective Ellis Decker. Despite his well-deserved reputation for dependability, part of me was amazed
that he had actually turned up. He disapproved of my desire to go after Magrelli on my own, but a desire to protect his city must have won out. He knew the NYPD didn't have the time or resources to pursue every cartel with its hooks in the boroughs. If I were feeling sorry for myself, I would say that I had blown one of our chances. There weren't recruits lining up for full-time undercover assignments. I had been an anomaly to say the least. The younger Magrelli brother had gotten my criminal charges against him dropped, and I was hellbent on making up for my failure. I'd collect enough evidence for five judges and juries, never mind what puppetmaster was holding their strings.

Vigilantism aside, I wasn't sure if Ellis would be happy to see me in any capacity. We could work together, but a great yawn of time and experiences stretched between now and when we had been close. I wiggled around until I faced him, his tortoiseshell frames a few inches from my face. The bright streetlights made his eyes look white behind the glasses—the eyes of a prophet, I always thought. I wondered if he knew my eyes were gray, or if he mistook them for brown and green and blue as most everyone else did. My unmemorable appearance made me a decent private investigator—able to trail people without being spotted—but probably wasn't a quality envied by most. A glance at the attention-seeking revelers confirmed my theory. Why wear a tiara or fishnets if not to be noticed? Disappearing was my superpower, like it or not. There's no sending that sort of thing back to the manufacturer.

“A friend?” Ellis repeated.

“Almost,” I replied, which was an accurate description of my relationship with Dolly. It was difficult to make friends when you spent your time pretending to be different people, but somehow Dolly had managed to squeeze his way into my life. “Did you find anything I can use?”

The crowd jostled me toward Ellis, and he caught my elbow. He didn't let go right away, and I could tell that he was holding back on another lecture about the risks involved. That would be falling into old patterns, back to when I was cowed by the authoritative tone he had developed by age nineteen. We had been undergraduates together at the best criminology school in the city, and he had been the best of our class, valedictorian, an honor even his blueblood parents acknowledged. By that time, my own parents had died, and I was looking for an escape from reality. Undercover work had seemed ideal, selfish even. And perhaps my current motives were selfish, as well. I didn't want to worry anymore about hitmen crawling up my fire escape. I held out my free hand, and Ellis looked behind him. The celebration was a perfect screen; no one would notice or hear us. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick stack of photocopies.

“Not anything to build a case on, but I thought you might be interested in the restaurant.”

I squinted at the top page, which showed grainy photos of a swanky place called The Skyview. Tables for two looked out over Central Park, and I guessed the height to be about twenty stories up. Couples in cocktail attire sipped champagne and gazed longingly into each other's eyes.

“When are our reservations?” I asked.

Ellis snorted. “It's members only, so even if I wanted to, darling, I couldn't take you.”

I doubted that Ellis Decker would be denied entry anywhere, but didn't say so. I was already brainstorming how I could snag an I.D. card and an appropriate ensemble. Would my knockoff Jimmy Choos trigger some sort of commoner alarm?

“It could be legit, Kathleen, so don't get your hopes up.”

I started at the use of my real name. I may have been christened Kathleen Stone, but I was more likely to go by Kat, Kathy,
Kay, Kitty, or even Keith. I made myself nod to acknowledge his warning, but the Magrellis didn't do legit. If the place wasn't laundering their drug cash flow, it was raking in illegal dollars some other creative way.

Another cheer erupted, and I turned to see that the Pink Parrot float had stopped for a brief show. Even better, Dolly had picked up a microphone. I was expecting Lady Gaga or Madonna to thud over the PA system, but instead, Dolly said a warm hello in his real voice, a honeyed timbre that drew catcalls. And when he started to sing “Rocket Man,” the onlookers surged forward as if drawn like mice to their piper. It was an unusual choice, not as fast-paced as the occasion seemed to dictate. There was also the real singing voice after a dozen or so lip-synchers. No wonder Mamma Burstyn treated him like royalty. He was giving Sir Elton John a run for his considerable money.

When I turned back around to thank Ellis for the information, he had vanished, and I felt my spirits sink in disappointment. Maybe it was unrealistic, but I was hoping to grab a beer like in the old days. “Onward,” I mumbled before standing on my tiptoes to see over the head of a Playboy Bunny who had scooted in front of me while I was distracted. Between her satin ears, I could make out the retreating Pink Parrot float, its red taillights casting an eerie sheen over the jugglers behind. They were dressed like macabre court jesters, their faces painted in green and purple scales. One tossed flaming batons into the air, snagging them a split second before they hit the ground. When he added a fourth pin, the audience added whistles to their applause. He caught it the first time effortlessly, then seemed to trip over something in the street. At first everyone assumed that it was part of the act, but the cheers turned to shrieks when the pin careened forward, way out of his reach, bouncing onto the Pink Parrot's makeshift stage.

“Dolly,”
I screamed, but the woman in front of me couldn't hear, much less the person I wanted to warn. Dolly had started to sing about Mars when he noticed the fire spreading quickly through the streamers and papier-mâché dragons. To his credit, he didn't panic. Most of the other entertainers ran for the sides, climbing over the railings even before the truck stopped. Dolly grabbed bottled waters and emptied them onto the burning surfaces, but it was hopeless. People started to stampede east, knocking over anyone moving too slowly. I wrapped my body around the 10th Street sign, determined to help if I could survive the exodus.

Roman candles began careening in all directions, and their high-pitched whine had never sounded less festive. A man fell nearby, his right foot engulfed until someone threw a jacket on top, slapping out the flames. I took a step toward them, then stopped, my eyes on the blue sparks emanating from what looked like audio equipment on the Pink Parrot stage. Then the float exploded, a deadly combination of sheet metal, scaffolding, and performers thrown into the night.