Ghosts of Karnak (12 page)

The Ghost pulled a length of twine from inside his coat and secured the broken door. He’d drop an anonymous tip to the police, alerting them to a burglary at this address. They’d probably assume the door had been smashed during the break in. At least that way, Donovan would realize something was up, and his men would properly secure the building.

For now, though, he needed to retreat to his apartment, to mull things over and tend his wounds. Donovan had been right—he did need some rest. He was doubtful he’d get much sleep, but he was no good to anyone—especially Ginny—beat up the way he was.

The next day he would visit Arthur at the museum, see if he couldn’t find out a bit more about Landsworth. If the man knew something about what had happened to Ginny, then Gabriel was damn well going to get to the bottom of it. He’d given Donovan two days to make his move, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help things along a little in the meantime, particularly if he remained in his civilian guise.

As he climbed the steps to street level, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being observed. A quick scan of the street told him it was still deserted, however, and so he fired up his boosters and took off into the night sky, leaving a streaming trail of light behind him.

Donovan watched smoke curl from the smoldering tip of his cigarette, twisting through the air like a twirling ribbon, before slowly dispersing on the breeze from the open window.

“I thought we could take a trip today, Felix.” He felt Flora stir on the bed beside him. She stretched luxuriously, like a cat in the sunlight. “Maybe even take a drive to Brooklyn, or Philly, pick up some of those egg rolls you like.”

“Mmm hmm,” murmured Donovan, rolling the cigarette between his lips.

Flora sighed. “You’re working, aren’t you?”

Donovan plucked the cigarette from his lips, spilling ash across his naked chest. “No.
No
. I’m here, in bed with you. It’s my day off.”

“I know that look, Felix.”

“What look?”

“That distant expression. You might well be lying there, smoking a cigarette and pretending to listen—”

Donovan held his hand up in self-defense. “Hold on a moment, Flora. I said—”

“No. It’s all right, Felix,” she said, speaking over the top of him until he relented. “I married you. I knew what I was getting into. You’re a million miles away. Your mind is someplace else entirely, and it’s
okay
. That’s the job. That’s
you
.”

Donovan eyed her warily, wondering if this was some kind of obscure test. “So you’re not mad? About your trip?”

Flora smiled. “If I were going to leave you for being an absent husband, I’d have done it years ago.” She gave him a playful shove. “Now go on, haul your ass out of bed and go and save the world, or whatever it is you do.”

Donovan laughed. He leaned closer, gathering her up in his arms, bringing her lips closer to his. God, she smelled good. “Saving the world can wait just a little while longer,” he said, running his fingers down the curve of her back.

“Well,” said Flora, laughing, “when you put it like that…”

* * *

Donovan sat for a while in his favorite armchair, sipping at a coffee that had gone cold some time earlier, and chain-smoking cigarettes. He’d been running things over in his mind, trying to find an angle on Landsworth.

He was certain the man was involved somehow, and that the exhibition—or at least the ship that had brought it in—was tied in some way to the two murders. He couldn’t yet figure out what Landsworth had to gain from it all, though. Why would a man who’d spent the last few months in Egypt—an archaeologist, for God’s sake—have any reason to go up against the mob? It made no sense. Coupled with that, he’d got the sense from Landsworth that he was scared of something. Maybe he’d found himself in uncomfortably deep waters, and wasn’t quite sure which way to turn. He certainly wasn’t the ringleader. He lacked the arrogance and the confidence for that.

Donovan decided he’d have another go at him tomorrow, maybe bring him into the station. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who’d take long to crack under pressure. Probably just holding him in a cell for a couple of hours would be enough to get him talking.

He glanced up at the sound of the holotube trilling on the sideboard, and, with a groan, jumped up from his chair, sighing as the cat immediately hopped up and took his place. He glared at it as he crossed to the sideboard, but its only response was to yawn, and then curl up in a ball.

“Donovan,” he said into the receiver, as he waited for the image to resolve.

“Mullins here, sir.” The image began to form as he spoke, seemingly crystallizing from the hazy blue light. Mullins was leaning right into the terminal, so only his face was visible. The lips were moving, but they weren’t yet in time with the sound. “I’m sorry, sir, I know you’re taking the day off, but you told me to let you know of any developments.”

“It’s all right, Mullins. It’s not like I can think of anything else, not with all of this going on. What’s new?”

“I think I’ve found the connection you’ve been looking for, sir. Between Autumn Allen and the Reaper.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been going through the boxes of personal effects the boys brought back from her house, and there’s a locket. No one seemed to think much of it, of course, but my sister’s got one just like it. It’s worthless, really, sentimental old junk, but there’s a hidden catch. It opens both ways.” Mullins’s lips had finally caught up with his words.

“And?” prompted Donovan.

“The front compartment contains a picture of her mother. The rear contains a photograph of her with Paul Abbadelli, the Reaper. He has his hand around her waist.”

“Got him!” said Donovan. This was the breakthrough they’d been waiting for, something definite to link the woman to the mob. Not just the mob, either, but the Reaper himself. He couldn’t have wished for a better opportunity.

“Well done, Mullins. At the very least, you’ve given us reason to interview him, and a clear connection to the dead woman. Now if we can just find a way to prove the other death was a reprisal killing…” He stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray on the sideboard. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First things first. Fancy a ride out?”

“Where to?” said Mullins.

“Well, here first, to pick me up. Then I think it’s time we paid Mr. Abbadelli a visit.”

“To his
house
, sir?”

“No, to his bloody boat in the Pacific Ocean. Yes, to his house. We can’t be scared of these people, Mullins. Otherwise they’ve won.”

“All right. I’ll be over shortly,” said Mullins, and he clicked off the receiver.

Donovan replaced the handset and grinned. That was one part of the puzzle finally falling into place. Now he just needed to get to the bottom of the Egyptian business, and see if he could find out what had happened to Ginny Gray.

* * *

“It feels a bit like walking into the lion’s den, sir,” said Mullins.

“It’s exactly like walking into the lion’s den, Mullins,” said Donovan. He watched as two men approached the car. He could see the bulge of handguns in the line of their suits. They were burly types, too. No doubt handy in a fight. “Try to see that as a good thing.”

“I’m not sure
how
, exactly.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He reached for the window release, and began to wind it down. “When you do, be sure to let me know.”

He looked up at the goon staring in through the car window. “Hello,” he said. “We’re here for a little chat with Mr. Abbadelli.”

They were parked outside the gates to the Reaper’s mansion. It was surprisingly tasteful, unlike some of the more ostentatious houses they’d passed on the drive over. Modern, but built in a classic, timeless style, with sweeping lawns to the front, and a long gravel driveway leading up to the porch. It reminded him of Gabriel’s place in Long Island.

“Mr. Abbadelli regrets he’s not seeing anyone today,” said the goon. He put his hand on the car roof and leaned in. Donovan saw his jacket flutter open and the butt of the handgun jutting out from its leather holster. It was clearly intended to intimidate him.

“Oh, he’ll want to see us,” said Donovan. “I think you should open the gates before you upset him.”

The goon frowned for a moment and glanced at his colleague, clearly not used to receiving backchat. “And you are?” he said, after a moment. Donovan could hear the hint of hesitation in his voice now. He’d learned long ago how to deal with this sort of bull-headed idiot—to show him you had bigger balls.

“Inspector Donovan and Sergeant Mullins from the New York Police Department.” Donovan opened his own jacket, flashing his badge, and ensuring that the goon caught an eyeful of his weapon, too.

“Wait here. Turn your engine off,” said the goon.

“It’s already off,” said Donovan, before winding up the window.

They watched through the windshield as the two goons held a brief conference, and then one of them—the one who’d been talking to Donovan—opened the side gate and marched off up to the house.

Mullins finally let out his breath with a long whistle. “I’m impressed, sir. The way you handled him then. You didn’t bat an eyelid.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mullins. I was bloody terrified. I learned a long time ago, though, that people like that, they’re just putting on an act. Beneath all that bullshit they’re just as scared and insecure as the rest of us. Probably more so.” He paused to light a cigarette. “So the only thing to do is put up your own front. Pretend like you’re the bigger animal. Puff up your chest and don’t back down. Sadly, it seems to be the only thing they respect.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Mullins.

“See that you do,” said Donovan. “It’ll save your life, one day.” He waved his cigarette in the direction of the gate. “Seems like it worked, too. He’s waving us through.”

The second goon, at a signal from the house, was opening the main gates and beckoning them to drive through. Mullins fired the ignition, and the engine rumbled, the furnace belching thick black soot into the atmosphere behind them. He teased the accelerator, and they purred through the gates, churning the gravel as they rode on up to the house.

The first goon was waiting for them at the top. Mullins pulled the car to a stop, and opened his door, clambering out. The goon put his hand out for the keys. “Here. I’ll park it for you.”

“No need,” said Donovan. “We won’t be staying long.” He slammed the car door and pointed up at the house. The main entrance was open, the door ajar at the foot of a small flight of stone steps. “In there?”

The goon nodded, and Mullins slipped the keys into his pocket.

“Remember,” whispered Donovan, as the two of them walked up into the house, the goon behind them, “don’t let them separate us. Stick together, and we’ll be fine.”

Mullins nodded.

The hallway was spacious, but with a minimalist, understated look. The walls were white and pristine, save for a large, gilt-framed mirror on the left, and a small portrait on the right, depicting a man—Abbadelli, suspected Donovan—standing in the grounds of his house, posing with an elderly pair, who must have been his parents. The floors had been laid in glistening white marble, and Donovan noted that the stone was shot through with traceries of deep red veins. They looked to him like tributaries of spilled blood that someone had tried, and failed, to remove.

There wasn’t much furniture to speak of—a small holotube table beneath the mirror, a potted aspidistra, and a hat stand, bearing only a single trilby. At the end of the hall, a carpeted staircase led directly up to the second floor, while a series of doorways on the right and the left led deeper into the opposing wings of the house.

“Wait here,” said the goon. He crossed the hall and rapped precisely on one of the doors. Donovan heard a muffled voice call out from the other side, and the goon opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. Moments later he emerged, and with a look that could only be described as distaste, walked directly past Donovan and Mullins, and out of the main entrance again.

“Someone’s not happy,” said Mullins quietly.

Left to his own devices, Donovan decided to make himself at home. He shrugged off his overcoat, folding it over his arm, and then crossed to the holotube table. The place seemed almost too clean—somewhat clinical—and the lack of personal effects told a story of its own. There were no photographs, no heaps of unopened letters, nothing to suggest that a person really
lived
here. Everything seemed so cold and clean, even the sole family portrait; as if the Reaper ran his life in the same way he ran his organization—with a cruel efficiency.

Donovan turned at the sound of footsteps on the marble. A man had emerged from the same doorway as the goon. He was dressed in a sharp gray suit, his collar open casually at the neck. He had a tanned complexion, a prominent nose, and a thick head of oily black curls. He was clean-shaven, and shorter than Donovan had expected, perhaps only reaching as high as Donovan’s shoulder. He was wearing a broad grin.

“Inspector Donovan!
Felix
, if I may?”

Donovan didn’t dignify that with a response. It was a good opening salvo, however—the man had clearly done his research. Abbadelli was letting him know that he understood precisely who Donovan was, and probably that he knew all about his family, his colleagues, and his personal habits, too.

“And Sergeant Mullins. It’s a real pleasure to see you.” Abbadelli crossed the hallway with his hand outstretched in greeting. Donovan took it, feeling as if he was somehow betraying himself just by accepting the clammy embrace. This, he decided, must be what it would feel like to do a deal with the Devil.

“Now listen, you’ve driven all the way out here to see me. Let me have one of the guys fix you a drink.”

“Thank you, Mr. Abbadelli, but there’s really no need. We won’t be keeping you for long,” said Donovan.

“No, no, it’s the least I can do. I absolutely insist. Hell, if I’d known you were coming I’d have laid out a spread. Now, what’ll you have?”

The man painted a good picture of the gregarious host, but the vaguely threatening undercurrent was hard to miss. Donovan decided he’d better have a drink. He had every intention of nailing this bastard to the wall, just as soon as he got the chance, but for now, it would be easier to cooperate, to play along. “I’ll take a whisky,” he said. “Straight.”