Myth Man (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

A
FTER HE JOTTED SOME ideas down, Detective Presto kicked back and reviewed his notes. Unlike famous, fictional detectives, he had no magic summary that ended with the solution and killer’s or killers’ names. He only wished it was that easy. He lacked the panache and oratory brilliance typified by literary sleuths. He was merely persistent and practical.

Instead, he formulated a battle plan. Although he always knew, it was now readily accepted that they were dealing with one man or one organization. They had a pattern. He killed on religious holidays and twisted the holy symbolism with sadistic intent.

Presto doubted they’d catch the guy in the act, and although the extra police presence couldn’t hurt, Presto viewed those precautions as politically practical. It was the detective’s job to find suspects.

While he was suspended from the case, Danko’s team interrogated people of interest. These notes were in the case file Danko provided when he was reinstated. Most of the interviewed were chosen because they were considered extremist or fervent, depending on your take on such matters.

Presto had a different take. The killer was not a religious fanatic. Instead, he was someone who hated religion. Instead of steering right, Presto veered left and did a little research.

Woven within the American tapestry are countless loose threads that are part of our nation’s fabric but almost unnoticeable in the grand cultural collage. Most Americans are raised with some religion. Some stay dedicated; others no longer practice. Then there’s another category.

Disenchanted with religion, they seek answers elsewhere. America’s landscape is littered like strip malls with all types of cults that provide alternative shopping for the spiritual buyer. Some, like Heaven’s Gate, had a spiritual closing sale when the group committed mass suicide so they could hop aboard the UFO following the Comet Hale-Bopp.

Religious freedom.

He also profiled another possibility.

There existed another animal, one that was abused in a religious context. They do not merely lose faith; they either hate God for their fate or no longer believe and blame religion for not only their ills but society’s ills as well. This man might be harder to find, but Presto unearthed a few points of interest.

When he finished reading, he tapped his pen with a nervous patter against a spiral notebook. He wanted more, but it was all he had. Something wasn’t right. He was conditioned to dribble his ideas to the big men, only to be flatly rejected. So why did he feel the pressure dishing it to the lithe FBI agent?

Of course, he knew why, but he did not readily accept it. This was the first time he’d worked with a woman, and … she was beautiful, and, more importantly, she was not repulsed by him. In fact, they were going to dinner. Other than his mother, he’d never been to dinner alone with a female.

Presto was honest with his mother, and himself, that there was absolutely no chance that he could ever interest the likes of Lorraine Ridgewood. Having her in his company, however, was all the satisfaction he could hope for. It was not that he didn’t desire the proximity of a woman, but like his childhood dreams of being a thoroughbred jockey, some hopes are forgotten and left to die. Now his desk chair became his saddle and detective work his thrill ride.

He looked at the time on his computer. 6:04 pm. More than two hours had passed. It was time to get moving. He dismounted his chair and left the study. He had heard his mother leave and then come back. He decided to see what she was up to.

He found her on the couch watching TV. It was a sitcom. Some schlep was getting heat from his wife. The man wasn’t responding. He sat in a chair looking like he was doomed, but beneath the veneer, rage boiled.

Presto had seen that expression. Frank Danko.

“What time you going?” she asked.

“We’re meeting at 7:15.”

“Are you going to tell me where you’re really going? For real.”

He walked over and sat on the couch with her. “Sure. House of Hanabi.”

“Good choice.”

“She said she was easy going, but when I pressed, she said she’d been on a sushi binge since she arrived in New York.”

“She sounds pretentious. Where’s she from?”

He had an urge to defend her but held back. “She grew up in a suburb of Kansas City. She said there was great barbecue but not much else. She’s been in Virginia the past few years working with the FBI.”

“I thought you two didn’t get around to personal stuff,” she accused airily and winked.

Dominick smirked. “It came up in the context of dinner plans. You know how people are, who did not grow up here?”

“Is she paying?” his mother asked.

His eyes bulged. “Huh?”

“She asked you. She probably has an expense account.”

“Even so, the government’s not covering Hanabi’s.”

“I though this wasn’t a date,” she quizzed.

He bit his lip. “We’ll see how it goes,” he remarked.

She gave him a soft slap to the leg. “I’m just teasing you.” Then she sprang off the couch with energy he had not seen since before her injury.

Presto gazed at the TV. The same father was now sitting on a large, beaten-up couch with a white cockatoo on his shoulder. Transformed, he looked giddy. Around him were his now adoring wife and three over-elated children. He hoped Danko’s drama unfolded in a similar fashion.

Cleo Presto reappeared with the same haste she’d left with. In her hand, hung from a hanger, was a new sport jacket. “Look, it’s just like your favorite, except there aren’t any tears and stains.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re crazy.”

She laughed. “I’m old. I’m allowed to be.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

P
RESTO CAREFULLY MIXED A swab of wasabi into a small jade-colored ceramic bowl, half filled with soy sauce. The only thing hotter than the green paste in the restaurant was the woman across the table.

Presto sensed peering eyes when he arrived and found her at the crowded bar alone, holding a bottle of Kirin. They greeted, and she gave him a peck on the cheek, much to the delight of the recipient.

Trendy, young adult yuppies packed the bar, and a few guys with booze-fueled bravado were eyeing Agent Ridgewood like an appetizer. With no room at the bar, Presto was thankful when Ridgewood had suggested they check on their reservation.

Seated now, he ogled her as she scoped the menu.

“It all looks so good,” she purred without ever looking up.

“Indeed it does,” he replied without ever looking down.

Agent Ridgewood was dressed in form-fitting black slacks and a gray cashmere sweater. Presto wondered if it had, inadvertently, shrunk in the wash. Occasionally that happened to him.

Ridgewood finally gazed up, eyes wide. “I have an idea. How about you order for the both of us? Pick out a bunch of things, and we’ll share. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, sure,” Presto said agreeably.

“You like sake?”

He wavered. “I’m not a big drinker …”

She put her hands up. “It’s okay. I’ll just get a glass with dinner.”

Presto did not want to sound like a complete dud. “I’m just too busy to get out much. Sake would be great. I order the food; you pick the bottle.”

The waiter arrived. “Mr. Presto,” he said and bowed, “good to see you again.”

Presto replied with a respectful dip of his head and communicated with the waiter in precise Japanese. If his hair were tied back and he was naked except for a thick silk belt, Presto could have passed as a sumo wrestler.

Ridgewood politely asked the waiter a few sake questions and then selected one of his recommendations.

When the waiter departed, Presto explained that this was the restaurant where the murdered chef had worked, presumably for the purpose of acquiring the tetrodotoxin.

After Presto finished, Ridgewood said, “I want to thank you again for joining me.”

Presto considered himself the fortunate one but replied with the standard, “My pleasure.” He reached into a wooden bowl for some endamame. He broke a shell and deposited the beans into his mouth.

Ridgewood’s face did a one-second spasm. “I went out with Cro-Magnon Carter once. Horrible,” she spewed. “He harassed the waitress all night, calling her toots and honey. I was embarrassed the whole time. When he tried to stiff the waitress on the tip, I slipped a ten spot on top of his five.”

Presto’s face grew conciliatory. “Despite what you told me, I’m still surprised Malcolm keeps Donavan on.”

“Me too,” she said frustrated.

At the church, Ridgewood explained Bailey’s apparent bond with Agent Donavan. Donavan had grown up in South Boston prior to the recent gentrification when it was predominantly a low-income, rough neighborhood. His father worked at the fishing docks doing assorted odd jobs, like cleaning and loading. But the father did his best lifting with his pals at Shanny’s, a local pub.

As the youngest boy, Donavan watched and learned from his brothers. The oldest died when Donavan was only seven, shot by a liquor store owner he was trying to rob. A few years later, his next older brother was killed drunk driving while trying to drag race across the Broadway Bridge. His last brother also found the bottle and committed suicide after a drunken fight with his girlfriend over her refusal to introduce another female into their sex lives.

Donavan’s older sister did not suffer such a tragic fate, but did share the family’s lust for booze. Drunk, she was easy prey for hammered horn dogs. By twenty-five, she was a mother of four children. Three had different identified fathers. The fourth child’s father was a mystery. She said she passed out at a friend’s party, and someone must have taken advantage of her. Her parents pushed for testing, but she refused. The truth was, she was inebriated and a willing centerpiece of an orgy.

Determined not to end up like his siblings, Donavan and his younger sister Allison found other outlets. For Donavan, it was hockey. The speed and aggression were a substitute stimulus for the fake highs of drugs and alcohol. His father succumbed to liver disease before Donavan was admitted to Boston University, but the old man would have been proud that the first Donavan to go to college did so with a scholarship, not to just play hockey but also for good grades.

Donavan played big minutes as a defenseman for the Terriers in his freshman year. He became a fan favorite for his tenacious style, and by the time he graduated, he had broken a Terrier school record for penalty minutes. The previous record holder had been Malcolm Bailey, who was considered one of the best Americans in his era and represented his country in the 1964 Winter Games in Innsbruck, Austria. One of Bailey’s teammates was future miracle on ice coach Herb Brooks.

Bailey returned each year for the Beanpot Tournament and got to know Donavan. Right after he graduated, Donavan’s younger sister was found naked behind a warehouse wharf. She’d been raped and then strangled, choking her dreams of a career in medicine.

Bailey had contacted Donavan to offer his condolences.

Prior to the NHL draft, Donavan announced that he would not pursue a career in hockey. He felt another calling—law enforcement.

Bailey got Donavan a job with the FBI but in a different division. Donavan worked undercover infiltrating gangs. Although his success was not questioned, his tactics and attitude were. On the verge of being reassigned to a desk in Montana, Bailey took him under his wing.

A thought flashed across Ridgewood’s face. “Oh, speaking of Caveman Carter, I heard from him before we met. He claimed that he bonded with Danko today. Said to cheer him up, he forced Danko into a topless bar and got him drunk.”

Presto smiled, partially because the comment reminded him of his earlier banter with his mother.

Ridgewood noticed. “What’s so funny?”

Presto recapped his mother’s jibes, leaving out, of course, the comments she personally ascribed to Ridgewood. As they shared a laugh, their food arrived: A sashimi and sushi deluxe platter. In between the two giant entrées stood a boat of shrimp tails that poked out from a tempura rolls.

The waiter poured a splash of the sake in a glass and offered it to Ridgewood to sample. She brought the glass to her lips and downed it. “Wonderful,” she said, and the waiter bowed to her kindness.

“A toast.” Ridgewood raised her glass. “To us,” she declared. “To making a great team, catching a killer, and,” she paused for emphasis, “to be famous. Can you envision the headlines?”

Presto thought:
Yes I can
.
Beauty and the Beast
.

Instead, he said, “I had enough press for one year. I’d prefer anonymity, which is hard to do with my conspicuous proportions.” A frown appeared on her lips, but he continued. “It should be your face that gets exposed. I bet modeling agencies pay better than the government,” he joked.

“You’re too kind,” she said. “Cheers.” She jiggled her glass. They both took a sip. “Mmmm, delicious. The waiter picked a good one.”

Presto didn’t blame the waiter, but delicious was not the adjective that came to mind. Alcohol was not his thing. Poison on the palate.

Presto loved to talk about food as much as he enjoyed eating it. He separated his chopsticks, and then pointed and explained every morsel. The eel, or
unagi
, he described as succulent paradise. The tuna, or
maguro
, was a tasty temptress. Ridgewood looked on, fascinated.

When Presto’s table tour was over, at her suggestion, they toasted again.

Ridgewood handled her chopsticks fairly well. Her positioning was correct, but the motion was not yet second nature. Although the sticks looked like dental floss within Presto’s chubby fingers, he handled the utensils adeptly as he propelled food into his mouth.

Presto generously mixed the wasabi with the soy sauce. He looked up, and it was here that he made the connection between Ridgewood and the hot wasabi. He cautioned himself. It was okay to fantasize as long as he understood the dream was fantasy. Or, with his physique, science fiction, he mused.

After a few mouthfuls, and compliments on the cuisine, Ridgewood asked. “You want to talk about the case?”

He touched his outside jacket pocket. With trepidation, he pulled out an encased CD-ROM. “Everything I have to say is on this.”

Her eyebrows arched, and she did this upper lip movement that wiggled her nose. “Thanks, Dom. I thought we’d just talk about it. I didn’t mean to make you work.”

“No. It’s okay,” he assured. “I found it helpful transcribing everything. It’s not much, really. Just some ideas, a plan of action.” Despite engulfing several portions, Presto felt an empty feeling in the pit of his belly. “I hope it helps,” he finished meekly.

Ridgewood took the last gulp of her drink and poured herself another. She looked at Presto’s glass and then at him. Presto felt the cue, closed his eyes, pulled his head back, and braved the rest.

Presto grimaced,
sake very sucky
,

“I’m sure it will be helpful,” Ridgewood remarked while Presto cleansed his palate with water. She then picked up her napkin and played with it a bit before dropping it back to her lap. “You’re different,” she added.

“Yeah, well,” Presto said unsure of her reaction. He spun his chopsticks nervously.

Ridgewood motioned for the waiter. “Dominick, I mean that in a good way. Most men I seem to deal with think with their dicks.”

Presto wheezed. He was not used to this discourse from women. Then again, his exchanges with a female as beautiful as this were usually limited to something like, “let me open that door for you,” which was followed by one word (hopefully)—“thanks.”

“Maybe it’s my lot in life,” she continued. “I’m continually battling the male ego—the swagger, the staring, the snide comments.” She waited and exhaled. “You just have no idea how it is to deal with.”

Presto did not hesitate. “I do, Lorraine. I only wish to do my job and be left alone. I feel the staring. I hear the snide comments. The difference is that it’s because I’m fat rather than beautiful.” Shocked that he voiced the visual he continued with a big grin. “I wish I had it as bad as you.” He scowled in jest.

Ridgewood lips withdrew in an awkward grin. “You’re funny, Dominick.”

“You can call me Dom. Only my mother calls me Dominick.”

“Mother knows best,” she asserted. “Then I’m calling you Dominick too.”

“Okay.”

She clicked her tongue. Then she looked down at her glass and stopped for a drink. “You’re a funny guy, but you’re too hard on yourself.”

“I like to joke around. I’m also a realist.” He was slightly uncomfortable but hung on her reply. He decided to test the sake again. It seemed to taste better.

“Oh, I like that you’re not conceited. Self-deprecation can be sexy, to a point, but you have to like yourself. If you don’t care for yourself, no one else will.”

Ridgewood took another slug from her glass. It was empty, and she looked at the bottle, which was also empty, and frowned. She looked for the waiter, who bustled over.

“Sorry. Party of seven needed help with order.”

Ridgewood assured him she understood. “I waited tables in college, and it was not as fine as an establishment as this,” her eyes rolled around the room. “It was a rib joint, but the greasiest swine were the patrons.”

Both men chuckled, imagining what a younger version of Ridgewood must have had to put up with.

Ridgewood continued. “Do me a favor and get me another bottle of that sake. I commend you on the selection.”

The waiter smiled, bowed, and departed.

“Don’t worry about the bill,” she assured. “It’s on me.”

Presto put his hands up in protest. This was his first night out with a woman. He wanted to pay. “You have a better chance of picking me up than the bill,” he joked.