The Granite Moth (13 page)

While the hate group seemed more likely to send a funeral invitation in advance, I was determined to leave no stone unturned. I'd made that mistake before. And why was Aaron at the parade anyway if he wasn't performing? Big Mamma hadn't talked much after answering my questions, and I remembered Dolly saying that Aaron was everyone's favorite. Maybe that was all there was to it. He was distraught to lose his friends. If he needed an excuse to flee the harsh lights of an emergency waiting room, he certainly had one.

Today was a solo mission, Dolly's ability to pass for straight not exactly in question, but better not to take any chances. When I emerged from the subway, I spotted a 99-cent store and a Chinese takeout joint on a busy thoroughfare. I hoped the meeting was nearby, so that someone could at least hear my screams if need be. A part of me thought it might be a good idea to let Ellis know my plans, but the Halloween explosion wasn't his case, and I didn't much feel like working with whoever had been assigned to what was being treated as an accident—a suspicious accident, worthy of investigation and caution, but still an accident. Nobody could have predicted that a juggler would trip badly enough to send a flaming baton toward the Pink Parrot. I imagined the NYPD would keep the case classified as an accident until absolutely necessary to announce otherwise. A terrorist cell was no less frightening for being homegrown, and they wanted to avoid hysteria. They'd be using the term “wiring malfunction” unless someone leaked the bomb squad report. When one of my cell phones vibrated, I was startled, worried that Ellis had psychic abilities to go along with his prophet eyes. But it was the other Dekker, and I let it go to voicemail with some regret. I didn't need the distraction.

The warehouse was farther away from stores than I would have liked and about what you would expect. Aluminum siding, razor wire on the roof. The door's padlock was undone, and I slipped it off and into my cloth grocery bag. I didn't want to be locked inside this ramshackle facility. When I opened the door, the creak echoed, and I was confused about what I was seeing. Although the space was mostly empty, there were rows of metal shelves with matching metal containers that looked sort of like small trashcan lids, if trashcan lids were regularly polished. They gleamed in the lights. There were large windows at the top of the space, but the overheads were on, as well. If anything, it was too bright for my liking. I had to enter anyway.

The concrete floor was busted in a few places, and I sidestepped some larger pieces. I glanced down a few aisles, but there didn't seem to be anyone around, so I slid one of the containers off the rack. It was dated with a piece of masking tape: July 7, 1996. There was no dust to corroborate that assertion, and I felt certain these were handled regularly, whatever they were. I pried the top off and found a film reel. Holding a few frames up and squinting at them, I could make out a busty, naked brunette kneeling in front of an erect penis. I didn't need to see the rest. I'd taken plenty of salacious photographs of adulterers, but this was a different sort of cash game. Why was the Zeus Society meeting in a garage full of porn?

Footsteps were approaching from another room, and I rapidly stuffed the film back into the container and replaced it as gently as possible. It still clanged into place, and the footsteps paused. The sound of a gun being cocked made me freeze, and I found my voice as quickly as possible.

“Halloooo,” I called out. “Is anyone there?”

The footsteps hurried in my direction, and I wasn't surprised to see Leader Holt turn the corner. The Winchester pointed directly at my head was a whole other story, and I ducked. To his credit, Cronos lowered the barrel toward the ground when he took in my unintimidating figure.

“Ma'aaam,” he said, tipping his head in my direction. “Thiiis is private property.”

“Leader Holt? The Leader Holt? I've been wanting to meet you for so long,” I gushed. “You saved my nephew, flat-out saved him. He hasn't acted on his—” I paused as if looking for the right word. “Well, I don't even like to talk about it, but praise be, if I'm not talking to Leader Holt.”

I wasn't sure if I was pouring on the religion too thick. A quick glance at Wikipedia had confirmed that the Zeus Society wasn't recognized by any governing organization. With their
name, they were more likely to have pagan rather than Christian ties. Their brochure was heavy on Greek mythology, a curious choice given the stories of Zeus and others engaging in homoeroticism. I'd been trying to piece together this discrepancy, but so far had no theories. I was equally baffled by their meeting location, keeping my fingers crossed for some quick revelations. The leader seemed placated by my zeal and smiled a lizard smile, shouldering his weapon.

“Yes, ma'aaam, that's me. Are you here for the meeting perhaps?”

His slow way of talking didn't seem like an act, but it was disconcerting. The desire to finish his sentences for him was strong, and I had to squash that rude impulse. I'd hate to be kicked out before I met the rest of this merry band.

“I am indeed. I don't have much money—”

The leader held up his hand. “Allll are welcome,” he said with no apparent sarcasm. Bile rose up in my throat. The fish smell from my dress wasn't helping.

Cronos led me out of the main storage room and into a smaller, white-walled space. It was as bright as the rest of the building, and I squinted around at the folding chairs. They were all filled, but a stocky man in the back stood up so that I could sit. I thanked him and pulled my bag close to my chest. The padlock was heavy, and I hoped I wouldn't have to swing it at anyone.

“No shame in the maaan, shame that does great harm or driiives men on to good,” the leader began. Murmurs of affirmation followed, and when I glanced quizzically at the woman sitting next to me, she reached into her purse and pulled out a copy of
The Iliad
. It looked battered enough to have seen actual battle. Without much effort, she flipped open to the right page and showed me the verse Leader Holt had quoted. He was still talking, but I hadn't missed much in my distraction. “Good
afternoon, citizens,” he was repeating. “We are gathered here to praise the efforts of our outreach group who touched many souls at Saturday's orgy.”

It took me a minute to translate, but they were congratulating themselves on protesting the memorial service of Bobbie and Taylor. I nodded along with the crowd, my head heavy.

“Aaaand,” Holt continued, the word sounding like a drumroll. “We have yet another new face in our midst. Two in one day, how about that? Would you stand up, ma'am, and introduce yourself.”

I swallowed hard as thirty men and women turned in unison to face me. I found myself staring at their pupils, looking for serpentine slits. Snake handling hadn't been exposed in New York City, but there are all kinds spread throughout the boroughs. Lock up your adders with this group around, that's all I'm saying.

“I'm Kate Manning, and as I was telling the man there,” I paused to gesture toward Cronos Holt. “You all saved my nephew. He was going down a, well, a vile path, and now his family's at peace.”

A few members of my audience grunted, satisfied, as they turned back toward the front. My heart was pounding, and all my senses were telling me to run. I would never escape this crowd if they got angry. My working knowledge of Greek myths was limited to one freshman English class that I'd shared with Ellis, but I knew sometimes people were torn limb from limb for no apparent reason. I sank back into my chair, and a hand patted my back. I turned to acknowledge the stocky man who had given me my seat and paled.

I hadn't recognized him at first without his Stetson, but this man was most definitely the Texan I had met at The Skyview. I faced front again quickly, hoping that he wouldn't recognize me.
He wouldn't, right?
I was kicking myself for not taking more care with my disguise, keeping the Kate wig on in fear of overusing Katya.
Stupid.

A gray-haired woman was sharing news about increased donations, and I was too panicked to be disgusted by the figures. Who were these anonymous folks? Couldn't they be satisfied with blog trolling? I was willing to bet that one such backer was amongst us now. I'd seen his fancy watch and wad of cash.

My goal went from reconnaissance to survival in a flash, and I could barely focus on the speech. If I had been fully present, I would have wanted to find out why donations had increased. Was the influx of cash due to successfully killing two maybe three members of the gay community in one week? And was the assassin sitting right behind me? His presence couldn't be a coincidence, so there must be a link between this hate group in a smut-filled warehouse and the gamblers from Eva's highfaluting club.

When the remarks concluded and plans were made to meet at the same time next week, I eased up from my chair, planning to disappear into the crowd. Instead, everyone wanted to shake my hand, welcome me to the fold. I was invited to a support group and a tupperware party in the same breath. Leader Holt seemed smug as he watched his followers greet me. I kept myself from hissing at him, but barely. When the Texan stepped in front of me to introduce himself, I cringed but shook his hand. There was nothing else I could do. He didn't seem to know me, and I turned to accept well wishes from six or more smiling faces. As soon as possible, I slipped toward the exit and into the storage facility again.

I kept myself from running, knowing the old dress shoes I'd donned would boom on the concrete floors. When I was sure that I was out of sight, I slipped one of the metal containers off the rack and tried to wedge it into my bag. It was too big, and I had to put it back, cringing again at the sound. I headed toward the door, looking frantically over my shoulder to make sure that I wasn't being followed. Turns out, I should have been more anxious about who was in front.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
f
I had been looking where I was going, he never would have been able to pull me into his chest and clamp his big hand over my mouth. I tried to bite, but there was no loose flesh. When the Texan made soothing sounds close to my ears as if I were a stubborn horse, I could feel the bile rise up in my throat again. I swallowed hard, not wanting to choke on my own vomit. There are more dignified ways to meet your maker.

“I reckoned I might see you here,” he said, his low drawl sounding downright sinister. He dragged me toward a back room, my heels scrapping futilely in the process. I was afraid to go with him and afraid to make noise. My odds of besting a 250-pound man in a tussle weren't high, but they were better than my odds of surviving a bullet from the leader's rifle. When the Texan tossed me into a windowless space and locked us in together, I started to doubt my decision. Why is it so hard to choose the lesser of two evils?

I expected instant violence, would have preferred it, to the slow stalk the Texan did around the room as if looking for my vulnerabilities. There were plenty, I wanted to tell him. No need to be picky.

“The cop said you're
one of the good guys, but we have our doubts.”

“What cop? Who's we?” I said, folding my arms in front of me to keep them from shaking.

The Texan shook his head. “Should I call you Kennedy or Kate?”

“Katya,” I said, adjusting to the unfortunate fact that I'd been recognized. I slipped my scarf off my head, not wanting the material used to choke me. It hadn't served its purpose anyway.

“How about Kathleen Stone, former undercover cop for the NYPD who still thinks she's hot shit.”

“That'll do,” I said, not wanting to quibble with the presumed bravado. My moments of self-confidence were few and far between and usually didn't happen under the name Kathleen Stone anymore. If he'd been warned about me, that would explain how he recognized me at least. It was a relief to know that I wasn't losing my touch. But a small relief. I twisted the scarf into a long chord, thinking any weapon was better than none.

“The problem is that your reputation isn't stellar. Your last client's husband was killed on your watch.”

True
, I thought.

“Your main suspect was shanked behind bars.”

Fair enough.

“And there's some speculation that you might be in cahoots with one Salvatore Magrelli. Name ring a bell?”

My mind was reeling, trying to process how he could know so much about me. My response to Magrelli's name was to shiver, but otherwise, I remained impassive. “Don't give anything away” was my life's motto. I doubted any designers would put it on a T-shirt, but it worked for me.

After an interminable pause, the Texan pulled out a badge from his blazer pocket: John Thornfield, DEA.

“Drugs,” I said. Of course. I wouldn't be the only person to think of getting to Magrelli through his wife. I considered
how long Agent Thornfield must have been undercover at The Skyview to be so chummy with everyone, then didn't marvel at his open hostility toward me. I had put his operation in danger, if not him personally. More relaxed but still confused, I unraveled the scarf and folded it into my bag. “I'll apologize if you want me to, but if you think Ernesto Belasco's death is drug-related, why are you at this meeting?”

It dawned on me that Agent Thornfield was the other new member that Leader Holt had mentioned, and I asked how he had found his way here.

“Ernesto Belasco's funeral didn't get as much press as the Drag Queen Disaster—” I cringed at the insensitive term that had been floating around in some of the sleazier newspapers. If Agent Thornfield noticed my reaction, he didn't acknowledge it. “But there were a few Zeusers at the burial.”

“His parents said that they didn't have a funeral.”

“No service, a graveside for immediate family members. Damned if I know how the Zeus clan found out about it.”

“How did they even know he was gay? I figured that out yesterday.”