Hell's Horizon (16 page)

“Absolutely. I deplored the way you settled for so little. It helped drive me away from you. Ambition’s good, Al. But there’s a difference between standing tall and standing up to your neck in shit.”

“You think I should ditch the case?” I loved the way she put it so plainly.

“Not necessarily. If this is what you want, go for it. But it’s a messy business. I’ve had dealings at work with detectives. What those guys go through isn’t pretty—hours spent following people, bugging phones, invading privacy. Detectives destroy relationships, people, lives. I’m not sure you’re cut out for that.”

“But this is different. It’s personal. I won’t hurt anybody.”

“You can’t make a pledge like that. You might have to.”

I stared down at the table. “You think I should stop?”

Ellen sighed. “I’m not your wife now—what you do is none of my business. All I’m saying is, think before you act. Don’t rush in halfhearted. Do it right and
know
what you’re doing, or don’t do it at all.”

Ellen watched intently as I pretended to mull her words over, saw that I had no intention of letting matters drop, and tutted impatiently. “You should let me know when I’m wasting my breath. You don’t have the slightest intention of quitting.”

“Not really,” I chuckled apologetically.

“So why drag me out and bare your soul if not for my sage-like advice?”

I smiled sheepishly and said, “For your help.” Then I drew her back to Rudi Ziegler and explained my hunch, how I felt the murderer might be connected to him, how I needed to learn more about the mystic.

Ellen said nothing until I’d finished, then fixed me with one of her iciest stares and snapped, “You’re insane.”

“Is that a no?” I quipped.

“This guy could be a killer!”

“I doubt it. He’s meek as they come.”

“But he might send his clients to killers? Forget it! Look somewhere else for a stooge. I wouldn’t touch something like this if you paid me. If that’s a problem—if you think I owe you—tough. I don’t.”

“Of course you don’t owe me,” I snapped back. “I never—”

I broke off before I said something I’d regret. I began to wish I hadn’t started this but it was too late to back out now.

“I’ve no right to ask this of you,” I muttered, “but I’m asking anyway, because I have no one else to turn to. You wouldn’t be in danger. I wouldn’t ask if I thought there was any degree of risk involved.”

Ellen sighed. “I know.” A long pause. “But I’ve got work to consider. We’re real busy. I couldn’t—”

“It wouldn’t interfere with work,” I said quickly. “You could fit it around your office hours. It would be fun. A dibbling of divertissement.” That was one of Ellen’s favorite expressions—she’d made it up herself. She smiled and I knew I’d almost won her over.

She made a show of pondering my words, then finally let her head roll back and sighed wearily. “OK. I’ll listen. But I’m promising nothing. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“You better!”

I wet my throat before continuing. “You’d go along to a couple of sessions, have your palm read, your future told, that kind of thing. Get to know the guy, laugh at his jokes, flirt with him a bit. Then ask to sit in on a séance and express interest in going further, tell him you want to make meaningful contact with the other world and find a lover among the shades of the dead.”

“What?”
she squealed, delighted in spite of her misgivings.

“That’s what Nic was after,” I grinned. “A spirit lover, a ghost she could get hot and horny with.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I bet you had some fun with
her
beneath the sheets.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I smiled. “Made certain other parties I’ve slept with look like dead fish.”

“Watch it,” she growled, tweaking my nose.

“Whatever your story, however crazy, act like you’re serious and he’ll treat you with respect. He deals with cranks all the time. If he thinks you believe, there’ll be no problem. Say you want to delve into the secrets of past incarnations, mumbo jumbo like that. Mention Egyptians and Incas—he’s got a passion for Incas—anything along those lines you can think of.”

“That sounds harmless so far,” she said. “What next?”

“If he says he doesn’t do stuff like that and turns you away, you walk—thanks for the help, end of your involvement,
adios
. If he leads you on, play along, but push him toward a conclusion.”

“What sort of conclusion?”

“Insist on results. If he can’t provide them, ask him to send you to someone more in touch with the dead.”

“If he does, what do I do? Go see them?”

“No. If he gives you a name, pass it along to me and leave it there. I’ll check it out. The other guy will never know about you. See? Just as I said, no danger.”

She weighed up the pros and cons, then grimaced. “What the hell. I’ve been meaning to visit one of those fakirs for years. Maybe he’ll direct me toward the man of my dreams. I’ve tried every other approach.”

“You’re a peach.” I leaned across and kissed her, a chaste kiss between two old lovers who were now mere friends.

“When do you want me to start?” she asked.

“As soon as possible.”

“What if he draws a connection between the two of us?”

“How could he? If you don’t mention Nic or me, he has no reason to be suspicious. Treat it like a joke at first. Don’t start off serious. Let him
make
you believe. Let his act convince and propel you further along.”

“All right. But you’ll owe me big for this. I’ve got a birthday coming up and I won’t settle for a box of chocolates. Understand?”

“It’ll be diamond tiaras and slippers of gold,” I vowed.

“It’d better be,” she snorted, then raised her mug in a toast. “Here’s to Fraser and Jeery, the Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot of the twenty-first century.”

“Marple and Poirot,” I repeated, and we grinned stupidly as we clinked mugs and downed the coffee as if it were champagne.

12

I
spent Thursday morning checking for news of Wami. The streets were teeming with stories and unsubstantiated sightings but no real leads. I toyed with the idea of offering a reward for information leading to his whereabouts, but that would have brought the crazies out in full.

I stopped in at Party Central and looked for Frank. I wanted to ask him about the Troops guarding the Skylight the night of Nic’s murder. His secretary paged him—he was in a meeting but would be free in a quarter of an hour. I said I’d be back and moseyed down to the canteen to catch up on the latest gossip.

I passed Richey Harney in the corridor on my way, the guy who’d originally been destined to haul Nic back from the Fridge with Vincent.

“How’d the party go?” I asked.

“Party?” His face was a blank.

“Your daughter’s party.”

“My…?” The lights came on and he chuckled edgily. “It was great. Thanks for letting me off the hook. If you ever need a favor…”

He hurried on and I wondered what he had to feel edgy about. Maybe he skipped the party for a rendezvous with a mistress, or simply went off for a beer.

No sign of Jerry or Mike in the canteen. A couple of guys I half knew saluted me. I waved but didn’t go over—they were watching the horses and that’s something I had no interest in. I sat and watched a different channel, then took myself back to Frank’s office. He arrived soon after.

“Al. What’s up?”

I asked if he had a list of the guards at the Skylight. He did. Could I have a copy? Normally, no, but since I was The Cardinal’s current favorite…

Thirty-six names in all. “Any dirt on these guys?” I asked halfheartedly, not savoring the idea of investigating that many suspects.

“Every Troop’s clean, Al, you know that.”

I grinned. “Sure. Clean as angels. You know what I mean. Are there any you have doubts about, guys stuck at the Skylight because you don’t want them getting in the way here?”

Frank took the list and examined it. “Nobody I’m at odds with,” he declared. “Good soldiers, the lot. What are you looking for?”

I told him about Nic and how she hadn’t been killed at the Skylight. It was the first he’d heard of it. His face darkened as I broke the news.

“That bastard,” he snarled. “I can’t believe I wasn’t told. I’m the head of the goddamn Troops for Christ’s sake! I should be the first he comes to with—”

“Frank.” I whistled. “Calm down before your head explodes.”

He glared at me, then relaxed. “He gets on my tits, Al. You’ve got no idea what it’s like working close to that maniac.”

I thought—from my brief experience of The Cardinal—that I had, but kept the opinion to myself.

“The sooner he moves me on and lets that prick Raimi take over, the better,” Frank grumbled.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m on my way out,” Frank huffed. “He hasn’t said as much, but we had a few conversations recently and I got the whiff. I’m not as dumb as he thinks. My days as head Troop are numbered, thank fuck.”

The Cardinal had told me that at our first meeting, but I figured it would be better not to mention it to Frank. Instead I asked who “that prick Raimi” was.

“Capac Raimi. Theo Boratto’s nephew. You know him?”

“Yeah. I heard he was being groomed for big things. Didn’t realize he was up for your job, though. Vincent mentioned him the night we picked up Nic from the Fridge. He doesn’t like Raimi either.”

“Not surprised. Vincent always fancied himself as Ford’s successor. The way Raimi’s going, he’s gonna leapfrog us all. The Cardinal’s got the hots for him. He’ll take my place, Ford’s, even The Cardinal’s in the end, you wait and see. Fucking golden boy.” Frank muttered a few more curses, then shook thoughts of Capac Raimi from his head. “Anyway, the Skylight. If she wasn’t killed there, what makes you think one of our guys might have been involved?”

I shrugged. “I know the Troops at the Skylight aren’t the sharpest, but I can’t picture them missing a guy dragging in a corpse.”

“Only her back was cut up,” Frank reminded me. “The killer could have draped a coat over her, pretended she was stoned, waltzed her through in front of everyone. You wouldn’t get away with it here, but at the Skylight…”

“I’d like to check on them anyway. No objections?”

“It’s your time—waste it as you see fit. But have a word with me before you hassle any of them. I can do without insurrection in the ranks, especially with that fucker Raimi snapping at my heels.”

I decided to leave before he went off on another rant. I was on my way out with the list of names when I stopped on an impulse. “Do you know Richey Harney?”

Frank closed his eyes for a second, putting a face to the name, then nodded.

“He said he was at his daughter’s birthday party last week. Could you check—”

“Richey Harney doesn’t have a daughter.”

I paused. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Is he married?”

“In the middle of a divorce. No children.”

“Then I must have been mistaken. See you, Frank.”

Richey had left the building when I went looking for him. I was about to get his address and track him down when I spotted Vincent Carell chatting up a secretary. I decided to have a word with him instead. He wasn’t happy to be interrupted but came when I said it was important.

“What’s bugging you?” he growled. “Couldn’t you see the sparks zapping between us? I was this close to—”

“You recall our trip to the Fridge?” I cut in.

“Do I look like a goldfish? ’Course I fucking remember. What about it?”

“You asked Richey Harney to go with you first.”

“Yeah?” Growing guarded now.

“He said he had to go to his daughter’s birthday party. He told us he missed her First Communion and if he missed the party on top of that, he’d be in the doghouse with his wife.”

“So?” Vincent said unhappily.

“Richey Harney doesn’t have a daughter.”

“He doesn’t?”

“He’s in the middle of a divorce.”

“He is?”

I leaned in closer. “You can tell me what’s going on, or I can worm it out of Richey. Either way, I
will
find out.”

“Harney won’t say anything. He’s got more sense.”

“But he’s also got less to lose than you. If he talks in exchange for my oath that I’ll swear everything came from
you
…”

Vincent’s nostrils flared. “Don’t fuck with me, Algiers.”

“I won’t. Not if you play ball. Tell me what that scene was about and I’ll keep it to myself. Not a word to anyone. It’ll be our little secret.”

Vincent took a deep breath. “If you say anything…”

“I won’t.”

“Ford set me up to it.”

“Up to what?”

“He said to wait until you came down, then go in after you. Harney would be there, waiting, ready to respond when I said what Ford told me to.”

“ And? ”
I pressed.

“Ford thought you’d take pity on the fool and offer to step in for him. If you didn’t, we were to have an argument on the way out and I was to storm back in and tell you to take his place.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know.”

“Vincent…”

“No shit, Algiers. Ford didn’t know either. He was following The Cardinal’s orders. Neither of us knew about your girlfriend.”

“You didn’t know it was Nicola Hornyak lying out there on the slab?” I snorted skeptically.

“I’d never heard of her before you ID’d her. Ford hadn’t either.”

“The Cardinal knew.”

Vincent shrugged.

I stepped away and thanked Vincent for his cooperation. He made a face, warned me again not to tell anyone he’d told me, and went back after the secretary. I found a chair and sat down.

I knew The Cardinal had known about Nic from the start—the file was proof of that—but it never occurred to me that I’d been deliberately sent to discover the body, that he’d arranged things to make it look as if it were my choice.

I recalled card tricks I’d learned as a kid, and how important the
force
was. A good magician could force his chosen card on a member of an audience, making it seem as if that person had chosen for himself. My trip to the Fridge had been an elaborate force, arranged by The Cardinal to look like an incredible coincidence. Sap that I was, I bought it.

Now that I knew about Vincent and Richey, I got to wondering what other tricks Mr. Dorak may have been playing. I’d assumed Nic was the reason The Cardinal had taken an interest in me, but maybe it was the other way around. He’d confessed to having had his eye on me since I joined the Troops. Perhaps he’d decided it was time to wind me up and see how I jumped. Could Nic have been killed on his orders and planted for me to find? If so, I was on a fool’s quest. There could be no justice for Nicola Hornyak if The Cardinal had signed her execution slip.

I spent the rest of Thursday and most of Friday stuck in Party Central, checking on the thirty-six Skylight Troops, scouring the files for incriminating evidence, of which there was plenty. Nineteen had chalked up at least one kill, twelve had served time, four were junkies, nine were being or had been rehabilitated. One had served as a covert agent in the Middle East, an authorized anarchist who suffered a moral crisis after bombing a school full of children. Three used to be rent boys. Two were fashioning alternate careers as pimps. Most gambled, drank a lot and screwed around outlandishly.

But there was nothing to link them to Nic, Rudi Ziegler or Paucar Wami. I devoted a lot of time to the rent boys and pimps, figuring they might have moved in the same circles as Nic, but if they had, it wasn’t recorded. I made a note to have a few words with them in private, but there was no rush. I had other fish to fry in the meantime. Namely, Paucar Wami.

There’d been no confirmed sightings since he annihilated Johnny Grace, though several bodies had been discovered bearing some of his numerous trademarks. I made inquiries that Friday by phone, which wasn’t the best way—people were always inclined to reveal more face-to-face. I planned to wrap up my investigation into the private lives of the Troops early Saturday and spend the rest of the day pounding the streets. If nothing turned up, I’d go see Fabio on Sunday.

I cycled home late, bleary-eyed, head pounding. I wasn’t accustomed to all this paperwork and screen time. I felt drained. I dropped into Ali’s and got a couple of bagels. I couldn’t face a book, not even a magazine, so I just ate the bagels, brewed a hot lemon drink to soothe the throbbing in my head and went to bed. I was asleep within minutes.

The sound of dripping woke me. Soft and steady, too gentle to disturb an ordinary sleeping ear. But I’d been trained to spring awake at the faintest unfamiliar sound—footsteps, the creak of a door, an unexpected drip.

I knew it wasn’t coming from my taps—I checked them every night, as water-conscious as every good citizen should be in these days of global warming. Besides, the position was wrong. My bathroom was on the other side of the wall at the head of my bed, the kitchen lay to the far right of the apartment, but the drips were coming from the center of the living room.

I swung my legs out smoothly. My fingers felt beneath the mattress and located the gun I kept there. I stood and started for the door, naked, moving stealthily, primed to open fire.

I pressed an ear to the door. The steady drip continued but I tuned it out and listened for other sounds, such as heavy breathing or the beat of an anxious heart.

Nothing.

Leaving the light off, I turned the handle and let the door swing open, stepping to the left in case there was someone on the other side waiting to barge through.

No movement.

I stepped out, left hand steadying my right as I led with my gun.

Nobody there. The room was full of shadows but I knew after a brief once-over that it was clean. Except for the object hanging from the lightbulb in the center of the room, the source of the drips.

I moved toward it swiftly, head flicking left and right, not letting my guard drop. As I closed on the object the sounds of the drips magnified. Again I focused to tune them out.

A foot from it, I stopped. I was staring at the back of a severed human head. It was hanging from a wire and revolving slowly.

As the face spun into view, I thought this was one of my nightmares come to life, Tom Jeery’s ghost head. My breath caught in my throat and the nozzle of my gun lifted. I almost let the head have a full clip, but controlled myself before I fired. The head posed no threat and firing would be a waste of ammunition and a sign of blind panic.

I watched breathlessly as the face crept into view. I knew it couldn’t be my dead father, but I couldn’t shake the fear that this was his spirit come to chastise me for not taking care of his mortal remains.

Then I caught sight of two twisting snakes running down the sides of the face and all thoughts of supernatural specters fled. This was no phantom. It was the solid, disconnected head of the city’s emperor of death—
Paucar Wami
!