Silent Mercy (38 page)
“What are my rights?” Daniel asked, looking at me for an answer. “I’ve got rights, don’t I?”
“The closest you come to that on this friggin’ train is having my right fist in your face,” Mike said, stepping toward the cowering man, ready to pull him off the bed onto his feet.
“It’s my sister who’s dead, Detective.”
“And there’s another woman missing now, you dumb bastard. A woman who was with Naomi at Christmastime, when you worked that play. She was at the same performance that Naomi attended.”
“Nico and Giorgio will be passing through the train,” Delahawk droned on. “Do not open your door to anyone except either of them. And use your intercom to call my room if you see these police officers. One is a man, the other a woman. They are not dangerous, of course. They are police officers. But there will be no conversation with them unless I am present. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
“What are you doing here, Daniel?” Mike asked.
“You heard him. I work for Mr. Delahawk. I can’t talk to you.”
Daniel kept looking over at the desk. I could see a switch and a mouthpiece. He had given away the location of the intercom. I squeezed past Mike and seated myself.
“If anyone sings, Daniel, it’s gonna be Ms. Cooper. And nobody’ll like that. You talk to me instead. What do you know?”
The kid knew he had his back against the wall. “Nothing. I only came on here yesterday.”
He had gotten off the bus from Philadelphia just hours before Ursula Hewitt was killed.
“Here?” Mike asked. “On this train?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your talent? You had a pretty good vanishing act going when you skipped out on us.”
“I’m a stagehand. I told you that.”
“Tell me again and lose the attitude this time. Ringling Brothers isn’t the Chelsea Square Workshop. They don’t hire scabs. You got a union card?”
“I do. Temporary.”
“Funny about that. My boss was having someone check Local One today. I think I’d have had a phone call if they’d confirmed that was true. Lying to me is a bad way to start.”
“I’m not lying,” Daniel said, reaching toward the desk for his wallet.
Mike grabbed his hand. “You scope it out, Coop. This kid’s a natural paper shredder, remember?”
I opened Daniel’s wallet and pulled out his credit cards and identification papers, which were wadded together in a side compartment. The driver’s license with his photo were in the name Daniel Gersh, but the union card—like two of the credit cards that probably linked to his stepfather’s account—said Daniel Bellin.
I handed the Local One temporary ID card to Mike. “You scammed me on that one, Daniel. Now tell me what brings you to the big top, okay? Don’t waste any more of my time. If we’d had your help from the get-go, two other women might still be alive. I’m praying for one.”
“Don’t try and guilt me, Detective.”
“What’s the guilt factor? Did you introduce Naomi to her killer?”
Daniel Gersh didn’t answer.
“I know you didn’t do that on purpose,” I said. “Talk to us about it. We can all save a life if you move on this now.”
“Does that make me an accessory or anything?”
“Just the fact that you may have introduced the two to each other? No, Daniel. This isn’t about you. We’re working against the clock,” I said.
And against the knock on the door by Nico.
“His name is Ted. At least, that’s what I thought when I got here last night.”
“You came looking for him?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Because you knew he killed Naomi?”
Daniel looked at me with the earnest expression of youthful trust. “I didn’t believe it at first. I’m still not sure that I do.”
“Why not?”
“When I met him—it was in December—and he came to the show I was working on. The same night Naomi came.”
“
Double-Crossed,
” Mike said.
Double-Crossed,
” Mike said.
Daniel nodded. “Ted—at least that’s what he told me his name was—got totally freaked out during the show. One of the other guys and I had to take him outside to cool him down. Get him away from the lady who wrote the show.”
“The priest?” I said. “Ursula Hewitt.”
“Exactly. I don’t remember her name, but Ted was crazed that she—that any woman—claimed to be a priest.”
“How did he even know about the play?”
“Through his church,” Daniel said. “What’s your name again?”
“Alexandra Cooper. Did he tell you anything about his church? The name of it, or where it is?”
“Nah. I’m not into that. I didn’t really care. But he was only in New York for a week or two. Some special thing he had to do here. I think he said he came from Atlanta.”
“When did he meet Naomi?”
“There at the theater, that same night. She heard the argument Ted had with the lady-priest. Just her kind of thing, you know? So when I walked him out onto the street, she came out after me. Or after him, I guess. I—uh, I didn’t know she was going to do that.”
“Of course not. Did Naomi leave with Ted?”
Daniel Gersh pulled back his arms, his palms facing out. “Whoa. I have no idea about that. I went back into the playhouse to close up, to do my job, and I left the two of them talking. Her usual feminist crap. That’d be just like Naomi, thinking she could change his point of view about something like his religion.”
“She never told you whether she went for a drink with him?”
“They may have gone for coffee or something, but she . . . well, she was ... I don’t have to tell you guys, do I? She was already involved.”
“With your stepfather?” I asked.
“Yeah. I guess he’s a bigger jerk than I ever thought he was.”
“But you must have figured, when we met you at Naomi’s apartment on Wednesday, that Ted could have been her killer.”
Daniel looked taken aback by that idea. “Hardly. That’s not what I thought at all. I mean, the guy was so going on and on about how religious he was, I never figured him to be capable of hurting anyone.”
“Daniel,” I said, “you’ve got to be straight with us. You were in Naomi’s apartment the morning after she was killed, ripping up pieces of paper, tearing pages out of her diary so no one would see them.”
“So what?”
“One of them had the words ‘circus train’ on it. You must have known about Ted. You must have realized that Naomi had made a plan to see him.”
“She didn’t make any plan with him back in December. He was only here for a few days then.”
“Forget it, Coop,” Mike said, his right hand propped against the door and the left one combing through his hair. “He just can’t be honest with us. He’s in this up to his neck.”
“No, I’m not!” Daniel shouted.
“Keep your voice down, kid. Start talking sense. Talk fast.”
“Yeah, I was ripping pages out of her diary. You think I wanted my mother to read about the affair Naomi had with my stepfather in the newspapers? The other notes were about me, not my sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was talking to this guy Ted that night in December, out on the street after the play, he was telling me I was crazy to work at a dump like the playhouse. I already knew that.”
Daniel squirmed in his corner on the bed. “He told me he could get me a better job, without any of the feminist bullshit—sorry, Ms. Cooper—when he came back to town in March. He said he’d call me if I gave him my number. Turned out to be two weeks ago, just like he said.”
“You believed him?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t I? I wasn’t getting a hell of a lot of job offers where I was. Naomi’s the one who wrote down his name, who wrote down the part about the circus train that night. But she did it for me, only she kept the paper and e-mailed the information to me. It wouldn’t surprise me if she got in touch with him this time around. You never know. She was always trying to make people see things her way.”
“And this train—the circus—Ted told you this is where he worked?”
Daniel Gersh answered me, his voice soft and low. “Yes.”
“He’s a stagehand too?” Mike asked, ready to rip open the door and confront Fontaine Delahawk. “A prop guy? What?”
“No, Detective. Ted’s an aerialist. High-wire stuff. His family’s been in the circus business for generations. They’re trapeze artists too.”
Graceful, fluid, agile—and fiercely strong as well. Our killer was a skilled aerialist—an acrobat used to performing in the air, without a safety net.
“Zukov is the family name,” Daniel Gersh said. “Ted’s one of the Flying Zukovs.”
FORTY-THREE
“IT’S
Chapman, Mr. Delahawk. Call off your dogs. We’re coming back to your place,” Mike said, speaking into the mouthpiece of the intercom. “Do me a favor and wait there.”
Chapman, Mr. Delahawk. Call off your dogs. We’re coming back to your place,” Mike said, speaking into the mouthpiece of the intercom. “Do me a favor and wait there.”
Mike nudged Daniel Gersh, and the lanky young man, now entirely crestfallen, made his way out of the room between the two of us, with me in the lead.
I could see out the window as we passed the well-lit Amtrak stations that we had breezed through Westchester County and just gone over the line into Connecticut.
The corridors were empty. We passed through the cars with no sign of Nico or Giorgio until we reached Delahawk’s door. He opened it himself and admitted us, clearly seething with anger.
“Come in and sit down,” he said, used to giving directions that were obeyed. “You’re the new boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Daniel said.
“Is he the problem?” Delahawk asked, and continued on before either Mike or I could answer. “I’d stop and let you off with him in New Haven, but that would compromise our arrival time in Providence and cost a bloody fortune on top of it to get the emergency parking and unloading fee. Starting up again and all that. Not possible.”
“We’ll take the ride,” Mike said. There were other people on board he wanted to interview.
“What has he done?”
“Nothing wrong,” Mike said. “Daniel’s sister was murdered earlier this week. I’m assuming you follow the news, Mr. Delahawk. The girl who was decapitated. Her body was found in Harlem.”
“Shocking,” he said, lowering himself into a well-worn leather armchair. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in distress, son? I’d have done anything to make you comfortable.”
Daniel Gersh stared out the window.
“Well, we’ll see you all have some dinner and send you on your way,” Delahawk said.
“Now that you know how serious this is, we need a little more of your help.”
“Yes?”
“Tell me about the Zukov family, Mr. Delahawk. Tell me how many of them are in your troupe.”
“What does this have to do with Daniel’s sister, sir? The Zukovs are an international legend. One branch of the family has been with us at Ringling for thirty years. Tony Steele, the American; Terry Cavaretta; and the Zukovs—that’s your circus royalty, Mr. Chapman. You’re not going to make an international incident out of us, are you?”
“Tell me about the Zukovs. I’ve got two hours to listen, with time to meet them before we disembark. I can have the train stopped anywhere along the way because I’ve got Daniel, and every agent from here to Florida will want to press him for details he might remember.”
Delahawk’s head snapped in Daniel’s direction. “What does he know?”
“It’s not like that, Mr. D. I’m asking the questions. How many Zukovs on board this buggy?”
Delahawk cleared his throat. “There are four of the family members in the current act.”
“And they are? ...”
“Yuri. He’s about thirty-five years old. His wife works with him too. She’s quite good. And they have a four-year-old who travels on the train, of course. I hope you’ll leave the children alone.”
“What’s their specialty?”
“Trapeze. They’re trapeze artists. The Zukovs are trained to do everything that might be expected of an aerialist.”
“Who else?”
“Yuri’s younger sister, Oksana. She works mainly with her husband. That’s Giorgio, one of the men I sent to search for you two. His family is from Italy, so most of them work in Europe. We’re lucky that Giorgio fell in love and came with Oksana. His people also have a long tradition of circus performance.”
“And their act?”
“Oksana and Giorgio are aerial contortionists, Detective.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s been a long time since you’ve come to the circus.”
“I live it, Mr. Delahawk. Twenty-four-seven,” Mike said. “What’s a contortionist?”
“The Zukovs perform aerial acrobatics while hanging from a special fabric. No safety lines, of course. They can suspend themselves from almost anywhere.”
I thought immediately of the tall gate that separated the steps of Mount Neboh from Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, the tree that hung over the cemetery at Old St. Pat’s, and the beams suspended above the silver chalice at the Fordham chapel.
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