Hell's Horizon (6 page)

“None that we know of, though we’ve only been on the case twenty-four hours and those are the kind of details you don’t unearth immediately. Her closest friend was Priscilla Perdue. Know her?” I nodded. The name was in the file and Nic had spoken of her a few times. “And there’s her brother. We couldn’t get anything out of him. He didn’t bat an eyelid when we called him in to tell him about the death and ask him to identify the body.”

“That’s peculiar, isn’t it?”

“Not really. People react to death in all sorts of ways. Very few weep openly in front of the police.

“Apart from those two, I can’t help you. I might know more in a day or two but right now we’re struggling to get inside her head. Nic kept her personal life to herself. In fact, if you haven’t any objections, I’d like to hear what
you
have to say about her.”

We ordered another round of orange juices and I ran Bill through my time with Nic. Toward the end of our talk he returned to the topic of detective work and honored me with some much-needed advice.

I shouldn’t bother with bugs—such technology was for the professionals. He told me to be honest when interviewing people, tell them who I was and why I was interested in Nicola. “That way they’ll have sympathy for you and may be more inclined to talk. If you pretend to be a real detective, they’ll see through you and close up shop.”

He stressed the importance of keeping things simple. “Don’t weave webs of intrigue. Murder’s not a complicated business. If you start building up networks of suspects and theories, you’ll chase your tail into madness. Take people at their word. Turn a blind eye to conspiracies. Look to narrow your options. Jump to no conclusions, especially dire ones.”

I listened intently, filing his words away.

We parted with a handshake and a smile. If Bill had grave misgivings about my getting involved, he kept them to himself. Told me to call if I needed help or ran into a blank wall. I promised to let him know if I discovered anything.

I cycled back to Party Central and flicked through the file one more time. The moment had come to take my first step. I probably should have heeded Bill’s advice and waited a few days before interviewing those close to Nic. But, keeping Frank’s motto in mind, I decided to strike fast, figuring people in mourning might reveal more than they would when composed. I grabbed my bike, tucked my pen and notebook away and set off for the twisting maze of city streets beyond the gate. As I cycled into the wind, a cliché whistled through my thoughts, and I grinned—Al Jeery was on the case!

part two

“i’m your man”

6

I
called on her brother first. Nic had never told me much about him, apart from his name, Nick, which was confusingly similar to her own. Nicholas and Nicola, but both had used the abbreviations since childhood, prompted by their father, who had a peculiar sense of humor. I’d asked why they let the arrangement stand now that he was dead. She said neither wanted to change. She liked Nic and he liked Nick. Besides, they didn’t see a lot of each other, so it wasn’t that big an issue.

He was twenty-nine, three years older than Nic. He had inherited the bulk of the estate when their parents died and was to have been Nic’s financial guardian until she turned thirty, whereupon she could have drawn from her share of the funds as she pleased. He had no head for business but he spent conservatively—he hadn’t frittered the family fortune away and there was a sizable amount left in the kitty.

The two weren’t close, but there didn’t seem to be any bad blood between them. They just didn’t have much in common. Or, to put it another way, they had
too much
in common—as well as sharing names, they also shared a taste in men. Nick Hornyak was, as the file succinctly phrased it, “bent as a eunuch.”

Nick lived in the family mansion in the suburbs. An architectural monstrosity, oozing old money. It had been Nic’s home too, though she’d hardly spent more than a few months there in the last several years of her life.

The butler wasn’t impressed when he saw my bike leaning against one of the pillars. “Deliveries to the rear,” he said snootily, and I had to jam my foot in the door to buy the time necessary to explain who I was and why I was there.

Master Nick, he informed me, was not at home and not expected back any time soon. He didn’t answer when I asked where I could find the absent master, so I said I had some personal belongings of Nic’s I wanted to pass on. He deliberated for a couple of grudging seconds, then told me I’d probably find Nick at a club called the Red Throat.

I’d meant to ask the butler about Nic—household staff are supposed to know all the secrets of their lords and ladies—but his cool manner threw me. I’d felt like a fish out of water to begin with—the last thing I needed was to be taken down a peg by a gentleman’s gentleman.

The Red Throat used to be called the Nag’s Ass. It had been a real dive until a decade ago. I’d come here a couple of times during my early tenure with the Troops, hunting scum. The neighborhood had improved since then and the Nag’s Ass had come up in the world. The name wasn’t the only change—it had undergone a complete renovation, an extra floor had been added, the front had been adorned with blushing red bricks, stained-glass windows of various designs dotted the walls. I wouldn’t have recognized the place if I’d been passing.

Bouncers guarded the door, even though it was early in the day and there was no obvious call for them. They stared neutrally at me as I passed, eyes sloppily scanning my body for revealing bulges. Real amateurs. They wouldn’t be joining the Troops any time soon.

The red walls inside were draped with pink banners and sensuous photos of James Dean, Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio and hordes more pinup boys. Low, throbbing music spilled from the many speakers. A “wet jockstrap” DVD played on the TV sets.

I wandered to the bar and waited patiently while the barkeep—female in appearance, though I had my doubts—polished glasses. I was casing the joint (I had the detective lingo down pat!) when the barman—his voice ruined the illusion—cut in. “Hi. New in town?”

“What makes you ask?”

“Don’t recall seeing you before.”

“You’ve got a memory for faces?”

“No. We’re packed wall-to-wall most nights and I don’t even notice the regulars in the crush. But days are quieter. The usual crowd. You get to know them.” He went on polishing.

“Do you know a guy called Nick Hornyak?” I asked.

“Maybe.” He grew wary. The hand polishing the glass slowed. He was getting ready to call a bouncer.

“A friend of mine told me to look him up,” I lied, upping my voice an octave. “Said he might show me around the city and set me up with a place to stay.”

The barman resumed polishing, doubts vanishing with the smudges on the glass. “He’s shooting pool.” He nodded toward one of the tables in an alcove to the left. “Alone. Likes to work on his technique.” Eyes twinkling, he took my order—lemon juice—and put one of the spotless glasses to use.

I walked over slowly, studying Nic’s brother. He looked younger than his years, tall, handsome, expensive silk shirt, a gold St. Christopher medallion dangling from his neck, long hair gelled back. He’d have to watch that hair—dangerously thin. By the time he was thirty-five he’d be sticking chunks back on with glue. I knew about hair. Used to date a hairdresser.

He strolled around to my side of the table and I saw he was wearing a miniskirt. He flicked me the eye, grinned, bent to make his shot. I traced the hem of his blue tights up his long, shapely legs. From this angle he would have excited any guy who didn’t know better. He even had the roll of the hips pegged.

He sank a ball, turned, leaned against the table and smiled. “I love playing with balls and forcing my way down dark, tight holes. How about you?” I’d watched a lot of noir flicks in my time, but I’d never seen Bogey come out with an innuendo as blatant as that!

“I’m more into chess,” I replied drily. When he pouted, I added, “But I like your dress.”

“Silly, isn’t it?” he simpered, lighting a cigarette. He offered one but I shook my head. “I only wear it when I’m hanging around. I would have made more of an effort if I’d been expecting company.”

“My name’s Al Jeery,” I said. “You may have heard of me?”

“Should I have?”

“I was a friend of your sister’s.”

His guard came up instantly. “She had a lot of friends. They’ve been coming in droves to share their condolences. You’d be amazed how many are reporters.”

“I’m not a reporter, Mr. Hornyak. I’d been seeing Nic for a month before she died. We were close.”

“Lots of people were
close
to Nicola. How do I know you’re telling the truth? I had one esteemed member of the press pretend to be a long-lost cousin last night.”

“I met her at AA. We were—”

“AA? What was Nic doing there, for God’s sake?”

I frowned. “You didn’t know she was attending?”

“My sister and I rarely discussed matters other than those of a sexual nature.”

“But she told me she was there because of
you
. That you threatened to cancel her allowance if she didn’t sort herself out.”

“I made no demands of Nicola. She took what she liked. I never said boo.” I was confused. He noted it and smiled. “Nicola was a complicated woman. I knew her twenty-six years and she still had the capacity to startle me. Don’t let it worry you—she often spun lies and fairy tales.” An eyelid raised slyly on “fairy.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I want to know why she was killed and who did it. The police are writing her off as a statistic. I think she deserves better. I think she deserves the truth.”

“A crusader.” He whistled. “Are you a detective, Al?”

“No. But I’ve got time. Resources are available to me. I’d like to talk with you about her and ask some questions. You don’t mind?”

He thought it over, then shrugged. “It’s a slow afternoon. How can I help?”

I opened my notebook, hoping I looked as if I knew what I was doing. “Let’s begin with the basics. Did you see Nic the day of her death?”

“No.”

“When did you last see her?”

He scratched his chin. “About two weeks before. We ran into each other in a club. We exchanged some comments about the atmosphere, the fashion, the music. Parted after a couple of minutes and went our separate ways.”

“You didn’t see her again?”

“No.”

“Did you talk with her on the phone?”

“No. I didn’t e-mail or text her either, write a letter or waft smoke signals her way. As I said, we weren’t close. We’d gang up occasionally for a night on the town, but only three, maybe four times a year.” He stubbed out his barely smoked cigarette, turned and shot pool again. “I don’t have much time for women, and Nic didn’t have much time for my kind of man.”

“Who was she with when you last saw her?” I asked.

“Some black guy with a bald head. He was sitting by himself at a table, looking standoffish.”

“Notice anything about him? Any distinguishing features?”

“I think he was tall. Thin. Black as sin.” Nick smiled. “That was quite poetical, wasn’t it?”

“You should publish. Anything else?”

“I really didn’t get a good look.”

I made a note of the bald, thin, black man and moved on.

“Did anyone have the knives out for Nic?”

“If they did, and I knew, I’d have told the police and they’d have questioned the guilty party.”

“People don’t always tell the cops everything.”

“But I did. I like the police. We get lots of officers here. I’ve always found them most obliging.”

“You really don’t know anything about her death?”

“No. There’s nothing I can tell you that I didn’t…” He paused.

“Yes?” I prompted him.

“She was wearing a brooch when she was killed.”

“With a symbol of the sun. I know.”

“The police asked me if I knew about it. I didn’t. But a few of her friends who called me since the news broke told me it had been a present from some mystic guy she used to see.”

Her file had mentioned an interest in the occult. I flipped my notebook over and scanned down some of the peripheral names I’d scribbled in the back. “It wasn’t Rudi Ziegler, was it?”

“The very one. Nic was into contacting the dead, fortune-telling, crackpot stuff like that.”

“And Ziegler gave her the brooch?”

“According to those in the know. I was going to contact the police about it. Do you think I should?”

“I doubt it’ll matter. They’ll find out from the same sources as you.” I made a big ring around Ziegler’s name and stared at it. “Do you know Rudi Ziegler?”

“Heavens no! I wouldn’t be seen dead in the company of witch doctors.”

“You know nothing about him?”

“Only what I heard from Nic’s friends. As far as I can make out, he’s a hole-in-the-wall Houdini—mirrors, hidden speakers and flashes of light.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

He thought for a minute. “Nothing springs to mind.”

“You don’t seem too cut up about her death,” I commented.

He sniffed. “What can I do about it? She’s dead. I’m not into grief trips. It’s a harsh world. Nic knew that. She ran into the wrong guy at the wrong time. Could happen to any of us. Those are the risks we take.”

“What if it wasn’t random? She may have been targeted. What if you’re next on the list? A distant relative looking to get his hands on the Hornyak estate or someone your father destroyed in business years ago?”

“No.” He sank the eight ball, lit another cigarette, racked the balls up and started a new frame. “Nic got unlucky. The perils of fucking anything that moves.”

“You’re the soul of compassion,” I said bitterly.

“Screw compassion. Death’s nothing new to me. I’ve watched friends die slowly from AIDS. Seen guys stabbed outside clubs, purely because of where they stick their dicks. You live with the losses or go nuts. Besides, I wouldn’t have wished death on Nic, but it could have happened to nicer people, know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

He fixed his gaze on me. “Nic was my sister and I loved her. But she was no angel. You knew her a month. From what you say, you only saw the best of her.”

“You reckon?”

“That bald guy in the club I was telling you about—that was two weeks ago. Were you still
close
with Nicola then, Al?”

I stiffened, preparing a retort, then realized he wasn’t insulting me, merely opening my eyes to the truth. I relaxed and nodded slowly.

“You weren’t the first she did the dirty on. You don’t even make the first few dozen. If you think she was an unsullied innocent and it’s your duty to avenge her, you’re a fool. My advice—let it lie. She wasn’t worth such devotion.”

His cruel honesty unsettled me and I realized, as I had when studying her file, how little I’d known about her.

“I’ll leave you to your game,” I said.

“So soon? Stay awhile. Go a few frames with me. You never know where it might lead. I’ve a wardrobe full of Nic’s old clothes and I can fit into most of them.”

“Tempting,” I grinned, “but no thanks.”

“Your loss,” he pouted, then winked. “Bye, Al. Call again someday. Catch me in something
hot
.”

I smiled, shook my head and left.

I felt reasonably good as I cycled back to Party Central. I’d made a start, and while I hadn’t cracked the case, I hadn’t collapsed at the first hurdle. I was pleased with the way the questioning had gone. I’d handled myself professionally. And I’d stumbled onto a possible clue in the process—Rudi Ziegler. Maybe I was cut out for this detective business after all.