Dopplegangster (44 page)

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Authors: Laura Resnick

BOOK: Dopplegangster
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“I wonder if he knew I had deliberately cut Elena, that I was checking to see whether she was real?”
“If he suspected, then he will likely escalate his activities, realizing that we’re getting closer to unmasking him.”
I reviewed the encounter, then shook my head. “I don’t know if he suspected. I just don’t know. But it’s certainly possible. Because if we’re right about him, then he’s a
very
good actor.” I looked sadly at Max. “Damn. I really
liked
him.”
“That’s precisely why he has been so successful in his bold scheme. He is tremendously skilled at concealing his true nature and at presenting a likeable and trustworthy persona to the world.”
“Well,
I
never would have suspected him,” I admitted, recalling that I had previously thought Father Gabriel seemed like someone who’d be good to turn to in a crisis.
“I’m still puzzled, though, by how he came into possession of Detective Lopez’s telephone.”
“Oh, my God, I know how!” I said, realizing. “Father Gabriel went to the scene of the crime!”
Max’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes. Lucky called him to Danny’s side after the murder.”
“Because that’s what you do when a guy dies,” I said slowly, “even a guy like Danny. You call his priest.”
“And Detective Lopez, a normally efficient and alert young man, was distracted by the discovery that you and I were involved with the brutally murdered Corvino capo whose death he was investigating.”
“So the lurking Father Gabriel,” I said with a scowl, “found an opportunity to steal his phone.” Maybe Lopez had set down the phone and turned his back on it. Or maybe he had put it in an outer pocket of his jacket and never realized the kindly priest at the scene of the crime was a skilled pickpocket.
Max met my gaze.
“Opportunity.”
“He’s not just evil, he’s
insanely
evil,” I said. “He’s trying to kill two women and a cop, as well as start a raging mob war.”
“The appetite of Evil always expands rapidly,” Max said.
“But considering how well the priest has concealed his true nature and his activities, why team up with an accomplice? Especially someone like Buonarotti, who doesn’t come across as either trustworthy or discreet,” I said. “Why would Father Gabriel take that risk? Why not just commit the murders himself, since the curse ensures that no one sees the killer anyway?”
“Hmm.” Max frowned in concentration as he thought about it. “He’s an educated young man, a parish priest, and a talented sorcerer who has invested himself deeply in the study and practice of his art. He may well have had no time and no occasion to learn the physical logistics of murder.” He stroked his beard as he continued, “Above all, though, I suspect this is a question of individual temperament. It seems likely that Father Gabriel has no stomach for violence. In his public persona, he chose to become a cleric rather than a member of Lucky’s profession. And in his secret life, he has also chosen an intellectual and spiritual path, albeit of a very different nature. So while he willfully victimizes people with his sorcery, I think it likely that physical confrontation is anathema to him.”
“You mean he’s a physical coward,” I said scathingly. “It’s fine to curse me with death, but he needs someone else to strike the fatal blow for him.”
“Precisely. Therefore he developed a strategy that would incorporate an accomplice to do the physical slayings,” Max said. “And he chose a man who takes pleasure in violence and who has something to gain if these murders lead to a war between the Gambellos and the Corvinos.”
“What a team they make,” I said grimly.
“Distressingly effective, to date.”
“But, Max, what about motive? I still don’t understand
why
Father Gabriel would do this.”
“That’s because we only know what he has told us about himself, which is virtually nothing. But if he was telling the truth about one key point—that he grew up around the Gambello
famiglia
—then Lucky may know enough about him to postulate a motive when we explain our theory to him.”
“I’ll tell Lucky we need him back here as soon as possible.” I opened my cell phone.
“Excellent. We’ll review with him what we have learned tonight about the nature of the doppelgangsters while we prepare to confront our adversary.”
“If we’re right this time, Max, how do we stop a homicidal priest and his violent accomplice?”
“We will begin by destroying his immediate means of creating more doppelgangsters.” He added, “Before we go anywhere, though, we must protect ourselves. You summon Lucky while I commence preparations in the laboratory.”
23
 
“N
ah, Gabriel’s family wasn’t connected to the Gambellos.” Lucky looked up at Max. “How long before this stuff washes off?”
“Several days.”
Down in the laboratory, Max was painting protective symbols on Lucky’s face, back, hands, and feet with a mixture of henna, wax, oil, and some unsavory looking ground-up ingredients that I had deliberately not asked about. My face, back, hands and feet were already covered with similar symbols. Nelli and Max were both also decorated accordingly. So we had been busy while waiting for Lucky to return from LaGuardia Airport.
Lucky had managed to convince Elena Giacalona that her life was in danger, and she should leave immediately—that very evening—for Seattle, where she could stay with her sister. Although Elena hated Lucky, apparently she was sensible enough to listen when a man in his profession told her she was marked for death and should get out of town. She had allowed him to escort her to the airport, and he had stayed there until her flight was safely gone.
Upon entering the laboratory, he was somewhat shaken to see the pile of rubbish that had previously been Elena’s doppelgangster, but he adjusted better than I had expected. Probably because he had just come from seeing the real woman.
“So Gabriel was lying about growing up around Johnny Be Good and the Gambellos?” I asked.
“No, that’s true. He and his mom lived in the same parish as most of the Gambellos.”
“Just his mom?” I asked, “Were his parents divorced?”
“No way, his mother was a good Catholic. Nice lady. She died a few years ago.” Lucky drew in a sharp breath and protested, “Ow, that stuff is hot, Doc.”
“I apologize, my dear fellow.” To keep the wax from solidifying before it was painted onto skin, Max was keeping the mysterious mixture heated over a low flame. He blew gently on his brush before he went back to painting interesting symbols on Lucky’s feet.
With still no idea how to protect us from a doppelgänger, Max had instead come up with a means of protecting us from a curse based on using a personal token that created a link to the victim. The symbols, ingredients, and chanting involved in this protection should, he said, deflect the fatal effect of encountering one’s own doppelgangster. Although I was the only one of us whose doppelgangster was definitely roaming around somewhere out there tonight, he thought it wise for all of us to take precautions.
Nelli—with her face, back, and four paws all covered in oily, waxy, lumpy protective symbols that were the rusty color of henna—was sniffing at the remains of Elena’s doppelgangster, trying to learn more about our adversary’s work before tonight’s confrontation.
I asked Lucky, “So where was Gabriel’s dad?”
“Dead. But even without a dad, the boy turned out okay.” Lucky paused. “Uh, until now, I guess.”
“I’ll wager he was a quiet and studious youth,” Max said.
“You’re on the money, Doc.”
“And we’ve certainly seen that he developed good people skills,” I said.
“Yeah, he was polite even as a boy,” Lucky said. “And his mother was so proud when he decided to become a priest. It’s a darn shame he’s turned out to be an evil sorcerer.” The old gangster shook his head. “Kids. Whaddya gonna do?”
“How did his father die?” I asked.
“Turned up one day in a Jersey landfill with two bullets in his head.”
“
What?
I thought you said he wasn’t a Gambello?”
“He wasn’t,” Lucky said. “He worked for the Buonarottis.”
“Really?” This surprised me. “The priest’s father was a Buonarotti soldier?”
Lucky shrugged. “Priests gotta have fathers, too, don’t they?”
“Why was he killed?”
Lucky shook his head. “No one ever said.”
“Who did it?”
“No idea.”
“Really?” I said.
“Swear to God.”
“There weren’t any rumors?”
“Oh, there was
lots
of rumors. But the cops found squat, no one ever took credit, and no one ever got punished for whackin’ a made guy. No one knew nothin’.” He shrugged. “For real, that time.”
“Is it possible that a Gambello did it and just didn’t tell anyone?”
“Sure, it’s possible,” Lucky said. “That was one of the rumors. It’s also possible a Corvino did it, which was another rumor. Both families was havin’ serious disputes with the Buonarottis at the time.”
“That sounds promising,” I said, thinking about possible motives for the current murders.
“On the other hand,” Lucky said, “it’s also possible that the hit was a piece of Buonarotti housekeeping that got kept real quiet.”
“Was that a rumor, too?”
“You bet.” Lucky nodded. “And some people said he got popped by a crazy girlfriend, or a jealous husband, or a crooked cop, or a tough mugger.” Lucky shook his head. “But me, I always thought the hit was too clean and professional for that.” He paused and added, “Well, maybe a crooked cop.”
“Good heavens,” Max said.
Lucky said, “But I never heard of anyone who
knew
what happened. And it was more than twenty years ago. So whoever popped him might not even be alive anymore.”
“The father’s unsolved murder would obviously be very disturbing for his son,” I said. “But, well, the death wasn’t exactly a surprising way for a wiseguy to go, was it? And since no one even knows who’s responsible for the murder, I don’t understand why it would lead Gabriel to trying to start a new Corvino-Gambello war.”
“That’s because you’re thinking rationally, my dear,” said Max, setting aside his brush and wiping his hands as he finished his work on Lucky. “Our adversary has a well-developed mind, but certainly not a balanced one. Having lost his father in childhood, he became obsessed with the idea of punishing his father’s killer.”
“But he doesn’t know who that is.”
“Indeed,” Max said. “Ergo, he blames everyone who
might
feasibly be among his father’s killers.”
“But, as Lucky just said, that description includes people who are dead by now.”
“You’re still assuming the priest thinks about this rationally, which I sincerely doubt is the case,” Max said. “He has long since grown to blame an entire class of people for his father’s death, and he has enacted a plan to wreak terrible vengeance on them.”
“But why wait so long to enact it?” I said. “His father died more than twenty years ago.”
“First he had to grow up,” Lucky pointed out. “And he probably spent a few years trying to figure out who whacked his old man. Hey, that might even be why he became a priest! Some guys tell their priests
everything
, y’know.”
Max said, “His practice of his art and his adaptation to changing circumstances have been resourceful. So I suspect Lucky is right in assuming the young man attempted various methods of solving his problem before choosing to access the dark arts. He would have been thorough in his quest for a guilty party, I believe. And then, of course, he would have needed some years of study and practice to prepare for what he’s doing.”
I said grumpily, “Well, I don’t see why he had to do it
now
, while I was waiting tables at Bella Stella. I never would have witnessed his first hit or—”
“
Opportunity
,” Max said, his eyes widening.
“Come again, Doc?”
“Mercury is in retrograde!
That’s
why Father Gabriel chose now,” Max said. “It’s a time of maximum confusion!”
“Right,”
Lucky said, catching on. “What did you tell us about it, Doc? Messages get lost, things get garbled.”
“Communications get misinterpreted,” I said, “and people have trouble connecting.”
“Mercury Retrograde made Gabriel’s plan more likely to succeed,” Max said. “It made his victims more vulnerable and his various adversaries less effective.”
“It certainly seems to have worked in his favor so far,” I grumbled as I reviewed the events of recent days.
“We’re up against one smart mook,” Lucky said. “No doubt about it.”
“But what about Buonarotti?” I asked.
“No, he ain’t that smart,” Lucky said dismissively. “And he’s a hothead.”

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