Skeleton Justice (7 page)

“What was the time of death?”

“Sometime between noon and five yesterday.”

“Middle of the afternoon and no one saw or heard anything?” “The police spent all day reviewing the security tapes. There’s only one person who entered the building during that time frame who can’t be accounted for. A woman wearing oversize sunglasses and a baseball cap, carrying a big purse. The concierge remembers that she spoke with an accent of some kind. He said he announced her to apartment 50E. The lady in 50E says she approved the visitor because she was expecting her masseuse. But then no one showed at her door. She was just getting ready to call down when the concierge buzzed her again, and the masseuse arrived. She thought it was a little screwy at the time, but she didn’t complain.”

“So this mystery woman is obviously your Vampire! Can they get a good description of her by studying the tape?”

Jake shook his head. “Hat, glasses, and coat cover every identifiable feature. She could be any medium-height woman—or man, for that matter—in the city. This is not a woman’s crime. A woman doesn’t sexually torture an old lady. It just doesn’t add up.”

“So what’s your next step?”

Sam and Manny were looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of a hat. He knew they wouldn’t be impressed with what he had to offer.

“Research. I plan to spend tomorrow calling colleagues here and abroad and trolling through databases and medical journal articles until I figure out just what caused that unique burn pattern. If I know what the Vampire used, maybe I can figure out why he—or she—used it.”

Sam parked Manny’s Porsche Cabriolet at the curb, pulling in between a jacked-up Trans Am and an ancient Honda Accord. His drive down Wilkens Street, on the west side of Kearny, New Jersey, had been monitored by two slavering pit bulls behind a chain-link fence and several gimlet-eyed statues of the Virgin Mary in front-yard shrines. Glancing at the small yellow house fortified with wrought-iron window grates overlooking his parking spot, he noticed a curtain flick back into place. Alert, alert! Stranger spotted on the street!

As Manny had predicted, the IDs produced by the remaining young men who had been with Travis and Paco on the night of the bombing bore the addresses of nonexistent buildings or unknown streets in the metropolitan area. The fact that these guys had been carrying fake IDs raised no suspicions among the police. No sir, they had their bomber, Travis Andrew Heaton, and damned if they were going to let suspicious behavior by the other people present that night get in the way of their case. So, no need to track them down, uh-uh.

That was Sam’s job. The previous night, after Jake and Manny had slunk off to the bedroom to kiss and make up, he had headed across the river to hang out at Club Epoch. Despite being fifteen years older than most of the people on the dance floor, Sam had managed to insinuate himself in a group of regulars. It had taken him until nearly four o’clock in the morning to tease out the identity and possible location of one Benjamin “Boo” Hravek, thought to reside in Kearny, known to hang out at Big Mike’s Gateway Inn in that fair city.

After returning to Jake’s brownstone and encountering Manny and Jake at the breakfast table, both dressed in business suits and sporting disapproving stares, Sam had crawled into bed for a few hours’ sleep, and then pulled into Kearny in time to have a late lunch at the Gateway Inn.

He strolled down the block, heading for a windowless building covered in gray asphalt shingles. Nowhere did the name Big Mike’s or Gateway Inn appear. If you had to ask, you weren’t welcome. But his search of liquor licenses held in Kearny had revealed that the license granted for 440 Wilkens Street was held by Lawrence M. Egli, DBA the Gateway Inn.

As he drew closer, Sam revised his approach. “Lookin’ for Boo Hravek, an old buddy of mine” would never fly here. In Kearny, everyone knew one another from the moment of conception—old friends didn’t appear out of the woodwork.

He thought about the girl who had told him last night, after five Cosmos, where to find Boo. Today, if she was able to remember their conversation, she would be regretting it. Telling strangers about the neighborhood boys was not the done thing, not even when the stranger was nicer than you were used to.

Sam took a second to get the appropriate expression fixed on his face, then opened the door to the Gateway Inn. Momentarily blinded by the sudden switch from the bright sunshine of the sidewalk to the dim interior illuminated only by the glow of the TV above the bar, Sam paused on the threshold.

“Shut the fuckin’ door,” a disembodied voice rang out.

Fresh air was clearly not a welcome commodity here; it diluted the rarefied scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Smoking in New Jersey bars was now illegal, but Sam figured the law must be routinely flouted at the Gateway. Either that or so many cigarettes had been smoked here that it was going to take decades for the place to air out. Sam made his way toward the bar, feeling the soles of his shoes sticking to the residue of last night’s spilled beer.

The bartender, a guy in his fifties in a short-sleeved white shirt, made fleeting eye contact. Sam interpreted that as the Kearny equivalent of “Hi, what can I get you?”

“Give me a beer and the fried fish plate.” He didn’t need a menu to know that the deep-fat fryer was the only method of cooking available in the Gateway kitchen. But Sam had eaten stewed monkey in Bangkok and grilled locusts in Ghana—he enjoyed going native.

The bartender plonked Sam’s beer down and returned to polishing glasses at the far end of the bar. The only other customer, the guy who had shouted for the door to be closed, sat a few stools away, resolutely studying the pattern of foam in his glass. Sam also sat in silence. Eventually, the bartender approached with silverware and the steaming plate of fish and fries.

“Lookin’ for someone to do a little work for me.” Sam directed his comments to the food, not the man carrying it. “Guy in the city said Boo Hravek might be right for the job. Know where I can find him?”

The bartender stared at him for a long moment without responding. Then he moved away, methodically wiping the already-clean bar as he went. When he got halfway down its length, he said, “What kind of work?”

“The kind of work he’s good at.”

“Who’d you say sent you?”

“I didn’t.”

The man nursing his beer suddenly roused himself. “Boo don’t work for just anyone.”

“I know.” Sam dunked his french fry in catsup and held it suspended over his plate. “That’s why I want him.” He watched the two men exchange a glance. Apparently, he’d given a good response. He pressed his luck a little further. “There’s good money in it.” He didn’t want to name a price, since he didn’t know what Boo customarily received for doing whatever dirty deeds he specialized in.

“Boo’ll be here in a little while. Sit tight.” The bartender disappeared into the kitchen.

Sam returned to the mound of food before him. Not too bad, really—the cod was flaky and fresh, and that carefully aged grease gave it a nice tang. He ate and drank and watched drag racing on ESPN, waiting for Boo. There were worse ways to spend an afternoon. This working for Manny wasn’t too bad.

Ten minutes later, the door of the bar flew open and crashed against the wall. Two men—very big men—stood outlined by the bright sunlight at their backs. The bartender and the other patron vaporized.

Boo had arrived.

Carefully, Sam wiped his hands and his mouth and placed the napkin on the bar. He did not like to meet new people with grease on his fingers or catsup on his lip. Standing down from the bar stool, he nodded to the punks who had entered. “Sam Rosen.”

The larger of the two men, early twenties but already toting a big beer belly, stepped forward and shoved Sam against the bar. “Last night, you were messin’ with Deanie. What the fuck’s up with that? What kinda bullshit you tryin’ to pull?”

Deanie? Had that been the name of his informant at Club Epoch? Sam thought she’d been referring to herself as Teeny, which, given the size of her boobs, he’d assumed was a nickname bestowed upon her ironically. Good to have that clarified.

Ignoring the man who had pushed him, Sam stepped away from the bar and faced his companion. From the description of Boo Hravek provided by Travis via Manny, he was pretty sure that the quieter guy was the man himself and the other one was just along for some fun—fun that Sam hoped could be avoided.

Unlike the blockhead bodyguard, Boo Hravek had a gleam of intelligence in his eye as well as a set of pectorals that any man would envy. He was Sam’s height, but a good fifty pounds of solid muscle heavier. Sam extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Boo. Deanie speaks very highly of you.”

“The bitch should learn to keep her mouth shut,” the bodyguard said. Boo remained silent but took Sam’s hand and crushed it in his grip.

Sam smiled, ignoring the pain shooting up his right arm. He watched as Boo relaxed, having established his alpha male status. It was important to Sam that his opponents not feel threatened by him. He wanted them cocksure and careless.

If he’d thought he and Boo could have their conversation in a civilized manner, Sam certainly would have pursued that route. But Boo had seen fit to bring the goon with him, and Sam could tell that rational discussion was out of the question in that quarter. So the only alternative was to neutralize the bodyguard and bring Boo into a position where he valued the opportunity to talk. It was doable—not easy, but doable.

“Have a seat.” Sam gestured Boo toward the bar’s empty tables and chairs as if he owned the place. When he saw Boo start to lower himself, Sam turned toward the goon and, without a blink of warning, rammed his head directly into the big man’s soft gut. The bodyguard staggered, and Sam used that unbalanced moment to hook his foot around his opponent’s ankles. The huge kid crashed down so quickly, he had no chance to put out his hands to break his fall. He landed flat on his prominent nose, which cracked with an audible snap. A blossom of red unfurled—dripping from his white polo shirt onto the floor next to his shoulder.

His bodyguard’s collapse had come so suddenly that Boo was just beginning to rise from his chair when Sam pivoted and upended the heavy table, pinning the young man momentarily. The goon still lay on the floor, stunned that the blood pooling around him was his own.

“Broken nose makes a hell of a mess, doesn’t it?” Sam reached down and compressed the carotid arteries on both sides of the goon’s neck. Within eight seconds, he had passed out.

Sam returned his attention to Boo, who was now standing, warily keeping the table between them. When Boo spoke, his voice emerged incongruously high-pitched for a man with a steroid-thickened eighteen-inch-round neck. “You killed him. Why did you have to kill him?”

“Nah, that’s just the Mr. Spock trick from
Star Trek
. Except I do it correctly—both sides of the neck. I
could
have killed him, but I chose not to.” Sam straightened his shirt, which had come partially untucked in all the commotion. “Choice is a good thing, wouldn’t you agree, Boo?”

Boo said nothing, his eyes darting from the main entrance to the kitchen door, neither of which promised any help or easy escape.

“Now
you
have a choice,” Sam continued. “You can sit and have a little talk with me, or you can join your friend there.”

Boo sat.

“Good. Deanie said you were a smart guy, and I see she was right.” Sam remained standing and smiled down at his companion.

“Who are you?” Boo asked.

“Uh, uh, uh—I’m the one asking the questions here. Tell me about the other night at Club Epoch.”

Boo’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a cop. Why don’t you just arrest me, then?”

“You insult me, Boo.” Sam extended one long, skinny foot. “You ever see a cop in Bruno Magli loafers and a Hugo Boss blazer?”

Boo, a brand-sensitive thug, looked even more puzzled and uneasy. “Why you wanna know about Club Epoch?”

“Because a friend of mine is taking the fall for that bomb. I want to know who set him up.”

“It wasn’t me. I swear to God I didn’t know what was going to go down. When that mailbox blew, I nearly shit myself.”

“Boo, I’m losing respect for your intelligence. That’s not even close to being a convincing lie.”

Boo sat forward in his chair. “No, man, seriously—I didn’t know about the bomb. All I was supposed to do was get this rich kid into Club E, buy him some drinks, then invite him to go to this after-hours club. We were on our way there when the whole mailbox thing went down.”

“Boo, you’re forgetting one little detail. It was one of your friends who put the bomb under the box. A guy named Zeke, or Freak or something. Maybe you have a reason for wanting to get rid of a federal judge.”

“No, Freak wasn’t one of our guys. He showed up at the club. Was hangin’ around, talkin’ to the boys. Knew a lot about music. When we all left, he came, too. I coulda run him off, but what did it matter? I was just supposed to take the kid to the after-hours place. If he wanted to come along, so what?”

“Did you see him put the bomb under the mailbox?”

Boo shook his head. “We were walking in a big group. I was in the lead with Paco. Suddenly, someone shouted ‘Run’ and everyone raced past us, so we started running, too. When the bomb blew, we were at the corner and we stopped to look back. Right away, the police showed up and started askin’ questions. That’s when I noticed Freak wasn’t with us anymore.”

“Did you tell the cops about him?”

Boo nodded. “They didn’t seem all that interested. They talked to the Korean guy in the market, came back and talked to us some more, then said we could go. That’s all I cared about. We split.”

Sam studied Boo. A fine sheen of sweat clung to the punk’s forehead. Systematically, he cracked all the knuckles on one big paw, then went to work on the other hand. Sam had the sinking feeling that this yahoo was telling the truth. And that meant Manny’s case was even more complicated than they’d suspected. “So, who asked you to get Paco into the club?”

Boo squirmed in his seat like a kid in the principal’s office. “See, that’s the part you’re going to have a hard time believing.”

“Try me.”

“I got this call and a guy with a funny accent offered me five hundred bucks to get Paco into the club, get him some drinks, and take him out after closing. He was actin’ all mysterious, said he’d leave the money in a paper bag at the playground.” Boo shook his head. “It was like he watched too many movies, yanno?

“I thought someone was messin’ with me. I went to the playground expecting some kind of scam. But the bag was there with the money, just like he said. So I figured, what the hell. It’s no skin off my nose. We go to Club E all the time anyway.”

“You didn’t ask who he was, why he contacted you for this job?”

“He had my cell number. He had to have been referred by a friend.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Some friend. Let’s see your cell phone. Is this guy’s number still in the calls received?”

“I already tried that. After the bomb went off and the cops came, I was pissed. We talked our way outta there, but I coulda been in big trouble. So I called the number back to ask what the fuck was going on, and the phone just rang and rang. Finally, some guy who sounded like a drunk answered and said it was a pay phone at Penn Station. I heard a train announcement in the background, so I knew he was telling the truth.”

“All right, give me your cell number. We may need to talk again.” Sam looked down at the congealing blood on the floor. “And I don’t think we’re going to be welcome here.”

Boo rattled off a number and Sam stored it in his own phone, then pressed the call button just to make sure he hadn’t been given the number for the Monmouth Park Racetrack. A shriek that passed for music emanated from Boo’s pocket.

“Answer that and save the number,” Sam directed. “Your mysterious friend calls again, let me know.”