The Granite Moth (24 page)

That night I wasn't
looking for my next self; I was looking for Marco Medina's. I couldn't be sure from my distance, but I thought that was him, putting all his efforts into clobbering a punching bag. I'd fought that enemy before, but the demon's there in the morning no matter the number of swings. The glow above me popped on for a moment, and I could see the outline of a moth. Its wings beat excitedly until the light went out again.

The facility was keycard entry, so I sat on my bench and watched my former lover fight with his conscience and fear. No one could accuse him of botching his undercover assignment. Two upper echelon gang leaders would never see the outside of Sing Sing again. A dozen more members arrested. If anyone could be called a Gotham City hero, it was him. His name had been left out of the papers to protect him, but he wouldn't have wanted the publicity anyway. I'd never met anyone as intent on self-sacrifice. He would have preferred if his punching bag hit back.

My plan was to vacate my spot long before he exited the building, but the city had a tendency to hypnotize me if I wasn't on guard against its powers. The streets weren't as busy as my morning breakfast with Dolly, but there were still people walking their dogs or scurrying home from late shifts. The corner deli was open, and there was a steady stream of customers ducking in for bottled waters and snacks. I watched a man rip open a packet of white, powdered doughnuts with his teeth and asked myself what I was doing there. I had reached the point of fatigue when my ears start to ring, and my costume needed to be washed or maybe burned.

Still I sat, mulling over what Big Mamma had told me. That Taylor Soto had wanted so badly to be a star. New York City may have been headed for a record-low annual murder rate, but that wouldn't matter to the twenty-one-year-old's
parents. And there was no getting around it; I had to talk to them. Maybe that's what I was doing on that bench, holding off the morning.

When he finally exited the building, Marco looked straight at me without recognizing me, and I thought I would let him walk away. He'd lost weight since I'd seen him last, since he'd asked me to go away with him and I'd said no. Some part of me must have known that I wasn't going to chase philanderers my whole life, that running away had lost some of its appeal. But I hadn't said any of that, and I wished I had now that I was watching this hollowed-out version of Marco stare through me. I called his name because I couldn't help myself. He jumped as if he'd heard a gunshot.

“Checking up on me?” he said, and we both pretended not to notice his reaction. He sat down, and I wasn't sure who was more pungent. My eau d'fish was giving his workout some competition.

“Something like that.”

He leaned his head on the back of the bench. I worried about when he'd slept last. It hadn't been restful based on the dark circles under his eyes. He'd let his hair grow back out and was clean-shaven. There was none of the bravado that his undercover persona had flaunted. He looked far removed from gang life despite the Los Guardias brand on his forearm. I reached out to trace the keloid that had formed after they'd seared his flesh. Marco tensed, then let me touch the smooth, raised surfaces.

“Coat hanger and a lighter, can you believe that?”

I shook my head. I'd been imagining something more elaborate to make such an ugly mark. The L and G were somewhat legible, but only if you knew what to look for. Would Dolly's face look like this?

“Like cocoons,” I said, rubbing the tunnel of the L.

“
No butterflies are going to emerge from here, trust me.” He looked at me, and I froze, my finger hovering above his skin. I suddenly knew why I'd come, to resurrect ghosts, and I could feel my face flush as Marco laced his fingers in mine and squeezed. But he was in no position to give me any comfort.

“Moths, maybe. I've always liked them better anyway, not flaunting their colors around like big business bugs.” I gestured above us, but the light had gone out entirely. The moth had probably moved on to a livelier target.

Marco didn't respond, and I squeezed his fingers back. He was looking at me like his old mentor, not his lover, and I understood. He wanted me to guide him through acclimating to the real world again, but who was I to give advice on that? I'd all but erased myself and was slowly building a person again, ashes up.

“This case. Both cases,” I said, not ready to think about what I could or couldn't give Marco. “The motivation is stumping me.”

“What you got?”

“A bunch of sad parents.” The Giabellas at the memorial service, the Belascos in their plastic-protected living room, and now the Sotos. I didn't want to face any more grief of that magnitude. If I didn't go home, I wouldn't have to wake up and take the train to the Lower East Side where Mr. and Mrs. Soto would pretend to be okay with answering my painful questions.

“What else?” Marco prompted.

“We wretched men / live on to bear such torments,” I said. I stared at Marco, wondering not for the first time what eye color was listed on his driver's license, his real one. In our little pool of darkness, his irises looked black, and I was sure that mine did, too. “This hate group and its leader with a god complex. The guy keeps quoting
The Iliad
to me, and all I can remember
from freshman English is ‘We wretched men / live on to bear such torments.'”

“I'm not a poet, and I could have told you that.“

“But if the group profits from their sick conversion programs, why would they kill potential clients?”

Marco was silent for awhile, letting me come to my own conclusions. When he spoke, his voice was softer, and I knew the complicated emotions of speaking about time undercover. “On the other side—” he began, then stopped.

I knew that he had been seeing someone, that he had cared about her. I could even imagine what it was like for her, rising one morning to find out that her boyfriend had vanished. When the community put two and two together, they'd realize she'd been dating a snitch. I hated to think about what would happen. The best she could hope for was ostracization. Would Marco try to contact her from out here? That would be suicidal. I'd left my fake friend Zanna in better shape, at least, protected by her family. It was hard for me to rustle up any sympathy for her anyway. I'd seen people twisted by poverty, but Zanna was always vicious if even half the stories were true.

“On the other side,” Marco said, pausing again. “There was this guy everyone called Cigarillo because he chain smoked them. Swagger like you wouldn't believe. Girls flocked to him. A new one every month. He'd leave them, then call them ‘bitches' or ‘crazy' or both. I knew some of them, and they were decent girls. A few with tempers maybe, but when you live in that way—well, there's nowhere for the anger to go.”

“Not crazy,” I said.

“Not crazy,” he repeated.

I knew he was warning me against insanity as a motive. Sure, your serial killers are out there, but Marco might as well have been saying, “Repeat after me: Victims are more likely to know their murderers.”

“
Let me see you home,” he said.

I shook my head and stood up, expecting him to do the same. Instead, he leaned back on the bench again and closed his eyes.

“I don't think you can sleep here,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, but my anxiety was apparent.

“I don't think I can sleep anywhere anymore.”

When I'd first moved back into my real apartment, every sound in the alley behind my building jerked me awake. Once, I woke to what I swore was a man in the corner of the room. Then my eyes adjusted, and I could tell the shadow was created by construction lights on the George Washington Bridge. Still, I'd opened my nightstand and checked the chambers of my Smith & Wesson. Why hadn't I anticipated that Marco would have the same fears? I guess he'd always seemed invincible to me, an example of dedication to the force.

I watched him rise slowly and look toward the subway station. I made a motion to walk in that direction, but he turned back toward the gym entrance instead. He walked inside without looking at me again. No one had claimed his spot at the punching bag, and he crouched defensively in front. In my mind, I could hear the steady beat of his fists hitting the leather the whole ride home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

B
aby powder didn't
completely soothe the rash that had spread across my chest, and I threw my gray hatemonger dress into the garbage, silently praying that I hadn't brought home some new roommates. I didn't often consider leaving the city, but news of bedbug infestations could send me into a panic. I hadn't sat on a subway bench in months following a report that the wood provided safe havens for the little pests. To be safe, I yanked the trash bag out of the can and took it down the hall to the shoot. I wouldn't be needing that disguise anymore.

I'd slept restlessly the night before and not because I woke up multiple times to claw at my skin. Marco's warning that crazy wasn't a viable motive had stuck, so I moved on to ambition. But Taylor Soto's rival for a promotion had been at the movies the night of the parade with multiple witnesses to vouch for his alibi. Moreover, he seemed genuinely scared when I spoke to him on the phone that morning, tearing up at the very mention of Halloween.

“I know this sounds awful,” he had said. “But I'm glad I wasn't there. I've never been so glad to be at a Wes Craven film in my life.” That's
when he started crying for real, and I thanked him for his time before getting off the phone. I knew in-person interviews lead to more accurate readings, but I felt pretty good about my instincts. The NYPD could fly out to Arizona if they wanted, but I wasn't booking a flight. My next task made that call seem like a merry-go-round, and I secured my Katya Lincoln brown bun wig to my head with a sigh. Dolly would say that there were better hairpieces in the Revolutionary War, but he wasn't here, and I wasn't telling him where I was headed.

I shook my black suit out of its dry cleaning bag and awkwardly slipped on the pants. A disguise wasn't necessary, but Katya was my P.I. getup, and I needed the confidence boost. The previous day's exertions had left me sore but not disabled.
Who's winning at life now
, I thought as I tucked in my blouse. I had to leave one jacket sleeve hanging loose, my busted arm resting in a sling underneath. The result was somewhat severe, but I was going to be as upfront as possible with Taylor Soto's parents. I hoped I wasn't too late to sort through the victim's belongings. Both his Twitter and Facebook accounts had been deleted—no “in memoriam” pages created—but I was keeping my fingers crossed that the Sotos hadn't cleaned out his room, yet.

When my personal cell rang, I glanced down at the caller ID, startled to see Lars's name. I almost dropped the phone in my excitement, but managed to gush that I was glad to hear from him before noticing the silence. “Hello?” I tried again. “Are you there?”

“Kathleen. I was going to leave a message,” Lars said.

Relief flooded my system, but he sounded awkward. For a second, I wondered if he had disappeared to get away from me. That wouldn't account for the gunshots on Ellis's voicemail, so I squashed my self-doubts and asked if he was okay.

“Yes, fine. Everything's fine. Listen. You need to stop looking for me.”

I let that sink in before responding. “Your brother's upset.”

“I'm fine. Tell him I'm fine. Busy with work,” he said, then hung up before I could ask about the gunshots.

What work
, I thought. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I was embarrassed, considering that I had obviously misread Lars's romantic interest. Worried all the same, I dialed the other Dekker heir to relay my concerns.

“I'm not sure we should call in hostage negotiators.”

Ellis was joking, so I knew that a weight had been lifted from him. His brother was alive. That didn't mean he wasn't in danger, and I tried to impress upon my audience the seriousness of the situation. “I told Meeza about Lars's car, and twenty-four hours later, I get this cryptic call.”

“Detective Cowder will look into it. It's a non-priority now.”

I guess hanging up on your audience was a Dekker family tradition. My exclusion had been pointed, but I didn't react. Ellis was probably right. The call was a good sign, and I should focus on the case actually paying me, considering Lars didn't seem too interested in the murder of Ernesto Belasco anymore.
Detective Cowder will look into it.

The train ride to the Lower East Side gave me too much time to consider the loss of young lives occurring every day in the United States, often fueled by prejudice and its ugly cousin hate. I didn't want to visit another set of forlorn parents, be reminded that Ernesto was twenty-two, Taylor Soto twenty-one, and Bobbie Giabella nineteen. Kids who would never have called themselves kids while they were alive. Bobbie thought he was robbing the cradle by dating a seventeen-year-old. Taylor had hustled his way up the food chain in one short year, from busboy to bartender to almost-performer. Of course, there was only so far hustling could get you.

I introduced myself to Mrs. Soto through the intercom, noting that this family wasn't as freewheeling as the Belascos
in terms of visitors. When I reached the second floor, Taylor's parents were waiting for me, eyes dry but sunken—small symbols of defeat.

“We were wondering when you'd come,” Mr. Soto said, holding his hand out to shake my good one. I wasn't sure what to make of his remark, but guessed that Big Mamma had notified everyone involved that I would be investigating. “A week and change. Not bad,” he added as he turned back into the apartment.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I began, my face warming not at how long it had taken me to visit them, but at the accusations I was there to make. The parents nodded, not as in sync as The Pink Parrot trio from the night before, but simpatico nonetheless. I doubted that I needed to interview them separately to get the same story. I didn't want to hear it twice anyway.