Bone Thief (26 page)

Driscoll returned from Vermont, frantic. Margaret was missing. In his mind, he played back the voice mail she had left him. She had said that Pierce knew the Benjamin woman was out of pattern. That news was as enlightening as it was unsettling, considering he didn't know the whereabouts of Margaret. He had left three voice messages on her cellular, and had called her beeper twice, but she hadn't responded. Where the hell could she be? It was very unlike her not to answer his calls. As he watched the narrow red hand on his office wall clock sweep away the seconds, he worried more and more.

The door opened, and Thomlinson walked into Driscoll's office holding a magazine. “Old Brookville. You know what an average house goes for in that community?” he asked.

“Why the sudden interest in real estate?”

“$3.9 million! That's the going price. Location, location, location.”

“You got a career change in mind?”

“That's where Doctor Pierce hangs his hat. He's got his home there.”

“That much I know. It's the only rock I haven't looked under. But there'll come a time.”

“Some house. Made the cover of
Architectural Digest
…June '98. Here, check it out.”

Thomlinson placed the magazine on Driscoll's desk, open to a photograph of a palatial facade.

Driscoll read the caption below it: “On the corner of Lilac Grove and Primrose Lane lies the eighteenth-century residence of Doctor Colm F. Pierce.”

The Lieutenant pushed aside the article and stared at Thomlinson. He was about to speak when he was interrupted by the electronic voice of his computer: “You've got mail” it sounded.

“Let it be Margaret,” he prayed.

It wasn't. It was from someone called Paradox. Driscoll looked at Thomlinson, shrugged his shoulders and clicked the Read icon.

Driscoll reached for the desk phone and punched in the number. A husky voice answered on the third ring.

“This is Lieutenant Driscoll. Is this Paradox?”

“It sure be, sugar.”

“I just read your e-mail. You're telling me you saw the man?”

“The monkey-faced white dude, you mean? Yessir. I saw him. He took me for a hundred dollars, that mama's boy, and there ain't no way I'm gonna get it back.”

“If I scan you a photo of the man could you ID him?”

“I was hopin' for a picture of you, sweetie-pie.”

“Me? You don't wanna see me. I'm ugly.”

“But your voice sounds so pretty. I bet you're tellin' me a big old fib.”

“Paradox, I'm gonna scan you the photo of Godsend right now. Let me know if he's the man who took your money.”

It took Driscoll all of two minutes to scan Paradox the bulldozer incident mug shot, and half that time for Paradox to ID Pierce as Godsend.

“That be the dude, you honky-tonk man, you.”

“Paradox, you've made my day. I'm gonna cut a petty-cash voucher for a hundred dollars and have it mailed to you. I'll need your address.”

Driscoll jotted down the Queens County residence and ended the call. His wristwatch read 7:05
P.M
. He called St. Vincent's Hospital and was told that Doctor Pierce was out of his office and wasn't expected back until morning. He punched in Margaret's cellular number one more time. When her voice mail announcement echoed in his ear, his eyes fell upon the
Architectural Digest
photo of Pierce's palatial estate.

“Cedric, you hold the fort. I gotta get into that house. I got a bad feeling about this. What if the son of a bitch is holding her captive?” Driscoll said a silent prayer, grabbed hold of his Burberry, and headed for the door.

It had become the Lieutenant's habit to keep tabs on all ex-cons he had arrested, especially those who chose residence in his city, and Lazlo Bahnieski was no exception. After his release from the state penitentiary at Attica, Lazlo had exchanged his talents at breaking and entering for the pleasures of fishing for blues in the waters that surrounded Brooklyn, trading in his cat burglar's ski mask for a captain's hat.

Every dawn, he'd sail his trawler,
Born Again,
as it hosted amateur fishermen on a day's outing a few miles east of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. It was a living and, with the help of Jack Daniel's, Lazlo was a redeemed man.

Driscoll knew that all the fishing boats returned to harbor before dusk and that by 8:00
P.M
. Lazlo would be stretched on his boat's hammock, downing his favorite booze. In the now somber Sheepshead Bay marina, the
Born Again
was easy to find. At 8:15
P.M
., Driscoll leaped onto the deck of the twenty-six-footer and rang the ship's bell.

“Hold on, pardner!” the voice bellowed from below. “Next charter leaves at six
A.M
.!”

“All hands on deck!” Driscoll hollered.

The door to the cabin creaked open. “Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn't Lieutenant Driscoll.”

“The hat suits you, Lazlo. It hides your ugly mug.”

“Lieutenant, that's the nicest thing you've said to me since lockup.”

“I'm here on business.”

“You're getting married, and the bride wants a wedding at sea?”

“I'm investigating this guy, and I need your help. It's time to sober up. I've got a job for you. I gotta get inside his house.”

“What you need is a judge and a warrant.”

“Already got it. But the place is likely to be more wired than AT&T. My attempt to get in might lock it down. I can't have that. I'm depending on you to get me in and out without any problems.”

“What's in it for me?”

“Word on the street says O'Hara doesn't give you much breathing room.”

“That parole officer is worse than a leg clamp.”

“I could see he gets a new assignment.”

“Let's drink to that.”

“No time now. Someone's life may be at stake.”

“OK, where's the house?”

“Old Brookville. Let's get a move on.”

It took Driscoll fifteen minutes to reach the residence. He parked the Chevy on the street, and he and Lazlo scurried along the property's stone wall to the gated entrance.

“So far, so good. The grounds are alarm free. I didn't pick up any signals,” Lazlo muttered, displaying an electronic scanning device.

They had reached the gate. Driscoll pressed the bell. No one answered. He pressed it a second time, producing the same results. Pierce was either not at home or wasn't answering the door. “Here's where you come in, Lazlo. How 'bout this gate?”

“Piece of cake.” the ex-con said, eyeing a digital keypad on the metal frame. He produced a miniature screwdriver from his knapsack and removed the unit's cover, then stopped. “This is an import. And if we fuck up, we activate that camera,” he said.

“What camera?”

“That one!” Lazlo pointed at an electronic eye imbedded in a brick. He then produced a miniature handheld computer, connected an alligator clip to a black-and-white wire inside the unit, and fingered a tiny toggle switch. “That'll do it,” he grinned as Driscoll watched a whir of red and green lights flicker on Lazlo's handheld computer. “We're in!”

The gate opened before them.

“Let's get a move on,” Driscoll urged.

The entrance door's lock quickly surrendered to the ex-con's manipulation. Lazlo's scanner detected no alarms inside the house.

“Here's where you take a breather, Lazlo. I'm goin' in alone.” Driscoll's stomach churned as he pondered Margaret's fate.

“Just like you to take the fun outa things. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Here's a fifty for your troubles. The Long Island Railroad stops six blocks north of here. Take the train and head back to the marina. I might be a while.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” In a flash, Lazlo disappeared into the night.

Driscoll was now inside a marble-tiled vestibule, the starting point for his excursion inside Pierce's house. He called out Margaret's name. It prompted no reply.

Driscoll followed the beam of his flashlight and reached a dimly lit circular room with four staircases leading from it, like four spokes radiating from a wheel's axis. The room boasted a frescoed cupola depicting what looked like a feminist resurrection. He wondered if it would be safe to turn on the lights. He groped the walls for a switch, but found none. There was a drawn curtain under one of the staircases, which stimulated his curiosity. He peeked behind the curtain. It concealed a large antique birdcage. The bird within it was three feet tall. There was a brass shingle with carved letters at the base of the cage. It read:
LAMMERGEIER
. Driscoll had studied such a bird in an adulted class on avian behavior at St. John's University. The bird was a vulture whose diet included a preference for bone marrow. At the bird's feet lay a bone. Driscoll reached for it. That's when the bird attacked. It was swift, but fortunately for the Lieutenant, off-target. Driscoll's fingers must have been an irresistible sight to the bone-hungry predator.

To whom did that bone at the bottom of the cage belong? Although it was a shattered fragment, it looked vaguely human, maybe a tibia or some other elongated limb bone. He wished he could get his hands on it. But the lammergeier was not about to part with it readily, and Driscoll was in no mood to wrestle with the beast.

Thoughts kept gnawing at him. Was that Deirdre's tibia? Or Sarah's femur? Or Clarissa's ulna? Or, God forbid, Margaret's radius? Does Pierce go on hunting expeditions for his pet? Does he stalk malls or parking lots or supermarkets looking for food for this bird? If that were so, then Driscoll had walked in on John Audubon's worst nightmare. And were there any more raptors lurking?

He released the safety on his Glock 9-mm revolver and eyed the giant bird. As he stood, momentarily frozen, he prayed his fears about the bone were incorrect, but the anxiety wouldn't be easily dismissed, and it was not a simple task to focus on the moment.

He shouted for Margaret, and floodlights illuminated the majestic cupola. The room was sound sensitive. Driscoll opened a door that led into a library. Leather-bound books lined varnished shelves. In the middle of the room, a Louis XVI desk gleamed under his flashlight. He caught the shimmer of a tiny dot of light emanating from a rectangular metal box connected to an antique telephone. Driscoll played the messages. A reedy academic voice thanked Pierce for his largess toward the construction of a cardiac wing at Saint Finbar's Hospital Center. A man with a thick Italian accent promised the delivery of a new Lancia that would be offloaded at the port of Elizabeth, New Jersey, on the thirty-first. A secretarial voice from Chelsea Chemicals confirmed the delivery of order #69732-B to his home address. The machine ceased.

Driscoll wondered what order #69732-B contained. Perhaps the Louis XVI desk would hold the answer.

He rummaged through the drawers, finding folders in alphabetical order. The Chelsea Chemicals folder was stuffed with receipts, invoices, product brochures, and letters of credit. Pierce was a frequent customer. Order # 69732-B revealed a large purchase of sulfur trioxide. He made a call on his cell phone. “Cedric, sulfur trioxide. I want to know what it's used for. Call me on the cellular.”

Driscoll stomped on the marble floor. The reverberation, like the percussion of a snare drum, indicated a hollowness below. But where was the portal or a trap door, or steps that led downward? No architect would build a multileveled edifice without connecting passageways.

For the next forty-five minutes, he searched every room and every closet inside the house. There were rooms of different sizes, decorated by artful hands. But, in all, no sign of Margaret. He reached a hall more fit for the Palace of Versailles than a Long Island residence. At the end of it, his flashlight exposed a structure of carved wood and gold leaf. It was a confessional booth! Why would anyone have a confessional booth in their home? The sighting made him feel uneasy. He was reminded of his own shortcomings, and that it had been ages since he knelt inside such a booth. As he marveled at the sighting, the ray of his flashlight revealed friezes depicting scenes from the Old and New Testament: the expulsion from Eden, the beheading of Holofernes by Judith, the resurrection of Lazarus, the assumption of Mary, and the day of redemption.

Driscoll opened the door of the booth and stepped inside. It made no sound. It had been well used. His conscience stirred. This was sacred space he was trespassing. An inner voice complained,
You've crossed the line
. He had reconciled with his irreverence before, but this was sacrilege. He knelt begrudgingly and assumed the penitent position.
What are you doing here
? the voice clamored. He heard a clicking sound. Gears were engaging beneath him. The floor gave way, starting a slow descent.
Prayers really are answered
, he thought, as he came to a stop some thirty feet below.

Driscoll stepped out into a spacious wine cellar. His attention was drawn to his right, where a gallery of glass showcases was lit before him. Cranial orbits of birds' skeletons stared at him. He returned the stare, gaping at the ghastly collection. He was filled with a sense of awe as well as a sense of horror. This was a macabre showcase. Its eerie silence was frightening. He read the names of each exhibit:
PEREGRINE FALCON, THE BUTCHER BIRD, WHITE HELMET SHRIKE, CALIFORNIA CONDOR
. All fierce predators. What purpose did these skeleton's serve? Had Pierce skinned these birds? Like he skinned his prey? The exhibit also made him feel a sense of guilt. It had been months since the first body was found, and he still hadn't caught the murderer. He was not proud of that. Thoughts whirled inside his head. Margaret! Where the hell is Margaret?

His cellular beeped. “Driscoll, here…Yeah, Cedric, wha'd ya find out?”

“That chemical you called me on, it's an acid. It's used by taxidermists to dissolve organic matter.”

“That fits,” said Driscoll.

There was a whooshing sound. It was as though a furnace had kicked in, or a sump pump, perhaps.

A boiler room?
he thought. It'd have to be below this.

He returned to the confessional booth. As his knees hit the floor, the booth stirred once more. Sweat collected on Driscoll's brow, searing his eyes, as the booth began its slow but steady descent.

The floor of the cell abruptly struck bottom. The jolt loosened the flashlight from Driscoll's grip. It spiraled, smashing against the wooden floor. Retrieving it, he switched it on. A narrow beam of orange light flickered.

As he shuffled forward, the frail beam from his flashlight was no match for the blinding darkness all around him, yet it exposed a coaxial cable tacked to a stone ceiling. He followed the electrical line as it meandered toward a junction box with a toggle switch. He hit it. A succession of spotlights came to life.

Driscoll was not alone. Two skeletons, standing in individual glass coffins, stared back at him. There were shingles affixed to the coffins. They read
MOM AND DAD, RESURRECTED
.

Standing before the two skeletons was a mock cave constructed of artificial rock. Assembled around the cave were other skeletons, some erect in their own showcases, some in disarray on shelves. The lammergeier's nest sat in the center lined with synthetic grass, twigs, and a heap of bones. As he stroked the surface of a slim bone, he knew the DNA analysis would corroborate what his sixth sense had already confirmed. He pocketed the delicate bone, wondering which one of the victims it belonged to, and raced to the confessional.

How the hell do I get up? he wondered. But as his knees met the kneeler, the lift began its ascent.