The Granite Moth (9 page)

“Sometimes when I was feeling low, he would call me Al,” Carlton paused. “It would make me smile every time.” Someone sang out a few lyrics from the song, and everyone murmured in approval. “So, Betty, if you can hear me, know that you're missed.”

Carlton blew a kiss toward the ceiling and returned to his seat, hugging the second eulogist before they switched places. It should have made my eyes water at least, but Carlton had gone from sympathy to suspect in two minutes flat. That was when the chanting started from outside.

The noise was faint, but since Dolly and I were sitting near the exit, I could make out their awfulness. The picketers hadn't been too vocal on our way in, waving their “America Is Doomed” signs. I guess they were waiting for the most inappropriate time to interrupt. As another performer, Aaron Kline, led those inside in an a cappella version of “Candle in the Wind,” shouts of “Better off dead, better off dead” echoed through the front lobby. Carlton slipped down my suspect list, and I scooted out of the pew and pushed past the reporters into the gray Saturday afternoon. The protesters had swelled in number, and I was shocked to see twenty or so people in matching “Better off dead” T-shirts shouting from Second Avenue. A spontaneous counter-protest was growing and would soon outnumber the organizers. I hustled down the stairs before the haters could be surrounded and disbanded by hot-tempered New Yorkers. I needed at least a few names.

“Excuse me,”
I shouted, elbowing past an imposing, bearded biker who was shaking his helmet and telling the protesters something that started with “You have no right—” and ended in imaginative expletives. He moved out of my way, and I found myself face to face with a fit thirty-something handing out anti-gay pamphlets. I took one and was welcomed to Mount Olympus Retreat, “Where Normal Is a Wish Away.”

“Thank you,” I said, holding out my hand. “Karen Connifer,
New York Post
.” I was improvising and crossing my fingers that he didn't ask for any sort of credentials. A few real reporters had followed me out, and I hoped that the rest would stay inside until after the ceremony. I didn't want my photo in the papers, especially not anywhere close to this group of nut jobs.

“I sawww you go into that hellhole. You're a sympathizerrr, as backward as the rest of them.”

He spoke in a surprisingly clear, but slow manner as if searching for each word. The tone was as flat as any Midwestern dialect I'd ever heard, and I adjusted my own speed to match his. It seemed possible that he had a mental deficiency, which could explain how he got mixed up with this lot. Beaten up at school? I knew I was reaching, but I kept going anyway.

“Trying to be fair and balanced. May I have your name?”

He pointed to the back of his pamphlet, and I read “Leader Cronos Holt.” Leader? I couldn't imagine this man leading so much as a shoe-tying mission. And, yet, here he was, surrounded by more than a dozen followers. Their shoes must all be velcro. Leader Holt was now lethargically shouting obscenities at the motorcycle man, enunciating each foul syllable, and the crowd began to push closer. I ducked down and off the sidewalk to avoid being caught in the inevitable brouhaha.

I could creep back into the church, but didn't want to interrupt genuine mourning, so I turned toward the cemetery and found a park bench instead. It wasn't peaceful with the shouts
from the street, but it was discreet. Nobody would bother me, a grieving widow perhaps, in my black dress and black jacket. I pulled my scarf tighter against the wind that was knocking around dead leaves and read the three-paneled, glossy brochure. It advertised the Mount Olympus Retreat, an “immersion program for mind recalibrating,” which I translated to mean one of those gay conversion camps. “Find the gods inside you” was an unfortunate tagline for a homophobic hate group. I didn't like
The Iliad
lines on the back panel any better: “There are no binding oaths between men and lions— / wolves and lambs can enjoy no meeting of the minds— / they are all bent on hating each other to the death.”

If the brochure was printed at the same place as the funeral invitations, I would have pretty good circumstantial evidence against the group that called themselves the Zeus Society. Not endorsed by any governing body, I could safely assume. An oddly named operation given the ancient Greek acceptance of romantic relationships between older and younger males. Maybe that was the point?

The Zeus Society boasted “thousands of men and women saved from an eternity of unimaginable torture.” Despite being unimaginable, someone had decided on flames and manacles as decorations. Each page was half-covered in fire, but there was still plenty of text from Leader Holt. Not one actual verse from a religious text. Not even more lines from
The Iliad
, although what else would they use? Zeus praising Ganymede's beauty?

At the bottom of the last page in small font was a logo for a Manhattan print shop, The Fountain. It was a place to start, and I took out my work cell, a cheap flip phone with a blocked number, and left a message with the manager. They were closed until noon, so the group must have picked them up yesterday. Or had them lying around for whenever the hate bug hit them.
I suppose it made sense to have a print shop on the ready. With eight million people in New York City, there are plenty to hate.

My personal cell started vibrating from my purse, and I groped around until I unearthed it. Since only a few people had the number, I answered without checking the I.D., suddenly worried that Meeza was in danger. Ever since she had started dating a car thief she was at the back of my mind, one step away from a misdemeanor in the name of devotion. It wasn't Meeza, but a vaguely familiar voice inviting me to dinner.

“I'm sorry, who is this?”

I switched on the recording device I kept ready to go and hoped that the incoming number was traceable. My heart sped up, and I looked around frantically to see if anyone was watching me. The angry mob couldn't care less about a woman sitting by herself among some tombstones, and I stood up to get a better view of the passing pedestrians. No one looked particularly threatening, at least none more so than usual in this part of town.

“Kathleen, it's Lars. Lars Dekker? I wanted to talk to you about last night. Get your perspective. Maybe hire you? Something.” He paused, and my heart returned to its normal rhythm. “I guess I'm a suspect. I didn't even know Ernesto.”

I walked over to a quieter corner, away from the street noise. Lars didn't sound like the confident tycoon from The Skyview. He sounded like, well, like someone who'd watched a person die in front of them.

“How'd you get this number?”

“Ellis gave it to me. He's not thrilled about the idea of me hiring you to work independently, but you're the only private investigator that I know. The only one I've ever met actually.”

I didn't doubt that was true. His kind didn't mingle with mine. It was curious that Lars wouldn't trust his brother's abilities, but maybe he didn't know how capable Ellis really was.

“Your brother's
been assigned the case. You don't have anything to worry about.”

“Dinner, please. I'm not asking for a commitment.”

“I'm working another case right now.” Which was true up to a point. I had no intention of giving up on Magrelli, but I didn't want anyone else involved in my vendetta.

“Don't say no until we talk.”

I stared at the stone facade of the church, moss clinging to the crevices. Not all of the people inside could have faith, an unwavering belief in righteousness. But it meant something that the hate mongers weren't sitting in the pews, that sanctuary was given to those most in need of comfort. I thought of Big Mamma waiting to sell her version of peace to a dedicated flock.

I knew that if I said yes to dinner that I would be using Lars in some way and, by extension, his brother. I wanted to know what he knew about the Magrellis, and I wasn't as interested in clearing his name. Ellis would never consider us suspects, not really. There was still time to turn back, say no to this dinner, focus on who caused the Halloween explosion and leave Magrelli for another time. But how many people would he hurt while I was waiting for the perfect timing? Big Mamma was right when she said I was a kid when I went undercover. But I wasn't a kid anymore.

CHAPTER TEN

T
here was a time when I thought V.P. looked harmless. His grin was too big for his face, his hair too shaggy to mean serious business. Seeing him leaned up against my apartment door made me question my earlier naivety. It wasn't the worn leather jacket—we all had one of those—but the look of pure hatred that he reserved solely for me these days. I hadn't given him my address, of course, but he had used the GPS tracker in one of the cars he lent me. As far as I knew, he'd only given the location out to one other person, my former lover Marco Medina, but I couldn't be sure. It was enough to make me consider giving up my apartment, but it was rent stabilized. It takes more than a few close calls with the Grim Reaper to make a New Yorker give up her reasonable monthly payments.

“To what do I owe the pleasure,” I began, slipping my keys between my fingers. As a do-good, law-abiding, “No trouble here, Officer” citizen, I no longer carried a gun, but I could take out an eye if I caught him off-guard. Not the kind of thought you want to have about a friend's boyfriend, but there it was. What could I say? Meeza deserved better.

“
Ah Kat, Kaaat, Kaaatttt. Do I really need a reason?”

I ignored his grating tone and unlocked my front door. No sense upsetting the neighbors, most of whom wouldn't call the police for anything less than a three-alarm fire.

“Thanks for the Kia last week. I appreciated the ride on short notice.”

V.P.'s illegal car rental catered to anyone who didn't want traceable tags—mostly criminals, but I knew there was at least one other private investigator on his roster because Meeza had told me. I hoped that other P.I. wasn't getting personal house calls, too. They usually meant an outstanding debt and busted knees, but I was up to date. I knew I wasn't dealing with Zipcar.

“For you? Any time. Did you catch a killer?”

“I nabbed a husband with pants around his ankles. You know, the usual.”

V.P. helped himself to a beer from my refrigerator, shaking his head at the scant supplies. I basically kept drinks and condiments. Anything else tended to go bad before I had a chance to consume it.

“Quite the glamorous life you lead, darling.” He put on a drawl for “darling,” but Vincent Patel was from the Bronx. I had checked.

“It has its upsides.”

I dropped my bag onto the bed that took up most of the space in my studio. I did not, on the other hand, drop my keys even when I opened the curtains to let in the fading light. Instead, I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and waited for whatever it was V.P. had to tell me. In person, no less. He played it cool, sprawling out on the loveseat, his long legs draped over one of the arms, dirty boots barely touching the upholstery, but touching nonetheless. I rocked back on my heels and tried not to show any emotion. The last man to sprawl on my sofa had been the one that V.P. had directed to my place. But Marco was
long gone, an exceptional cop taking a well-deserved break. I could have joined him on that break, but then where would I be? Enjoying the white sands of Bali when I could be chatting up homophobes and thieves?

“I'd like to hear about these upsides, Kat, I really would,” V.P. finally said. “I'd like to know what's in it for my beloved Meeza. You know, aside from the late nights and early mornings, shit pay and no benefits.”

I may have chuckled at V.P.'s concern over benefits. I doubted his company offered 401Ks. And I'm pretty sure his medical meant a guy in the back doing stitches with whiskey for anesthesia. Of course, laughing wasn't the best response, and my visitor became unhinged. He flung himself up and into my face, spitting his threats.

“Don't fucking mess with me. She's changing, asking where I am when I don't call. Who I'm with. Who I'm with is my business. Mine.”

I probably shouldn't have antagonized him, but there are ways I like to be addressed and ways I don't. “Fucking mess with you,” I started. “Don't you mess with Meeza. She's a good girl—no, she's a damn peach. Running around with scum like you. I think it's time you left her alone.”

I stepped even closer, wrapping my fingers around the keys until one of them cut into my thumb. V. P. didn't back down, and I didn't expect him to. The smell of coconut hair gel combined with sweat—mine or his, I wasn't sure. We were both giving into the adrenaline, spoiling for a fight.

“I'm not the one dragging her into God knows what situations.”

I was itching to shove him, but didn't want to be the one to make things physical. “She works her own cases,” I said.

“That may be, but I know you're getting your hands dirty again. Those bruises last month weren't from the neighborhood
softball league, and if anything happens to her—” He cut himself off, but I knew the rest.

“Out.” I pointed toward the door, and he walked toward it, chugging his beer. When he grabbed the knob, he turned to look at me again.

“You hear me, right? If anything happens to her. Anything.”

He shut the door behind him, and I flipped the deadbolt. My thumb started to throb, and I sucked on it. Between this and the scrapes from the parade, my hands were starting to resemble discounted Halloween props. Sliding down to the floor, I tried not to admit that he had a point if not the best delivery. Meeza didn't belong in either of our worlds and would probably be better off marrying one of the various taxidermists and lawnmower salesmen that her parents used set her up with. Probably.