The Devil's Elixir (25 page)

T
ess felt uneasy as the color drained from the principal’s face.

The woman, Marlene Cohen, hadn’t heard the news about Michelle’s death, and Tess hadn’t relished being the one to break it to her, but she didn’t have much of a choice. What she did, though, was avoid going into too much detail about what had happened, limiting herself to telling her that there had been a break-in at Michelle’s house, and that the intruders had shot her, fatally.

They were in the principal’s office at Merrimac Elementary, a smart and cheerful preschool-to-grade-six school that sat at the end of a cul-de-sac by San Clemente Park, close to where Michelle lived. Tess had checked out the website of the school before heading out there, and the first thing she’d noticed was how glowing its reviews were. Clearly, Michelle had done her homework and had chosen a highly regarded school for Alex. It made Tess think of the exercise she’d soon need to do herself on that front—school selection, admissions, and everything that went along with being the parent of a young child in today’s manic, highly competitive world. It had been years since her daughter, Kim, had been in grade school, and the thought of going through it all again was daunting. Surfing through the website of Alex’s school had made her stop and think, in more gritty detail, about how very different her life was going to be from now on.

The website informed her that the school ran some summer camps, which meant there’d be staff there for Tess to talk to. It also had a list of faculty members, but there were no Deans on it. Tess hadn’t been able to get anything more out of Alex about who he was talking about. In fact, most of the faculty were women. So she’d taken a cab out to the school and asked to see the principal.

Cohen, a tall, elegant, gray-haired woman who reminded Tess of a figure from a Modigliani painting, took a moment to collect herself before inquiring about Alex, how he was doing, what would happen to him. She told Tess she didn’t know the boy personally, but she thought she remembered seeing him and Michelle at school events.

“What can I do to help you?” she finally asked.

“I found a drawing that Alex had done that I was curious about, and when I asked him about it, he said his mom took him to see someone called Dean. I’m thinking maybe it’s some kind of counselor. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Cohen pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, not really. We don’t have any Deans on staff here. What was the issue with the drawing?”

“I’m not really sure. It shows Alex and someone else, kind of an ominous-looking figure. And when I asked him about it, he didn’t want to talk about it. He seemed scared by it. What about his teachers? Maybe they know something.”

“Alex was in prekindergarten,” Cohen said as she checked her computer. “He was in room two. Miss Fowden’s group.”

“And she never mentioned anything to you about him?”

“Nothing.”

Tess frowned. “Is she around? I’d love to talk to her.”

Cohen’s nose crumpled apologetically. “She’s not working this summer.”

“I really need to talk to her. Can I call her? Do you know if she’s around?”

Cohen looked at her, uncertain.

“Please. It’s important.”

Cohen smiled. “Sure. Let me try her.”

She picked up her phone, glanced at the computer screen to get the teacher’s number, and dialed. Tess watched anxiously as the call seemed to go unanswered, then Cohen spoke up.

“Holly, it’s Marlene. I’ve got a woman here who needs to talk to you. It’s about Alex Martinez.”

Tess’s heart deflated. From the principal’s tone, she’d evidently reached the teacher’s voicemail.

Tess gave Cohen her cell phone number, which Cohen included in her message. Then she thanked her and left.

As she walked back to the waiting cab, she felt the midday sun weighing down on her, draining and oppressive. She relived her chat with Alex, and the fear she saw on his face was still there, like a wraith, stalking her through the heat haze.

It was still there as the cab drove off, and she pulled out her iPhone to let Jules know she was on her way back. Her hand stopped and she stared at the phone for a moment.

The edge of her mouth cracked with a small grin and she hit two on her speed dial. Reilly’s number.

“Everything okay?” he asked, picking up promptly, as he always did.

“Yeah. I’m at Alex’s school. I just had a chat with the principal. It’s a great little place. Nice people.” She didn’t really want to mention the drawing again. “Tell me something. You guys have Michelle’s phone, right?”

“We do.”

“Could you check and see if there’s a Dean in her contacts list or in her calendar?”

“Why?”

“Alex mentioned something about Michelle taking him to see someone by that name. I don’t know who he is, but . . . might be good to have a chat with him, don’t you think?”

Reilly went silent for a second, then said, “This is about the drawing, isn’t it?”

She cursed inwardly. He knew her way too well. “Yes. I asked him about it, okay? He was scared, Sean. He was definitely scared and he didn’t want to talk about it. All I could get out of him was that Michelle was also curious about it and took him to see this Dean to discuss it. That’s worth checking out, isn’t it? I mean, what if someone was threatening him? What if it’s related to what happened to Michelle?”

Reilly went quiet again. “Dean.”

“That’s it.”

“Okay,” he relented, clearly not convinced. “I’ve got to go.”

“Love ya, big guy.”

“Right back at ya.”

She put her phone away, stared out the window, and exhaled heavily, trying to ignore the prickles of impatience that were stabbing away at every pore of her body.

S
itting at the solitary booth in the back of the Black Iron Burger Shop on East Fifth Street, Perrini wiped the last traces of the burger and the side of onion rings from his mouth and stretched his arms out lazily. As freelance jobs went, this one was almost embarrassingly easy. He knew this was a rarity, especially after one of the previous year’s jobs for Guerra had turned from strictly an information-gathering exercise into shutting down the local operation of a particularly aggressive Mexican cartel that was trying to muscle its way into the city.

Initially he had balked at turning off one of his newest suppliers of cash-stuffed envelopes, but the rival cartel that had hired Guerra in the first place were so pleased with how things had turned out that they had given Perrini a rather sizeable bonus, albeit one from which Guerra had creamed off a hefty twenty-percent commission. Nevertheless, it would be enough to put Nate, Perrini’s eldest son, through college, and a good one, too.

Perrini had taken no chances with the fallout. Within a week of the entire upper echelon of the incoming cartel’s New York City contingent being sent to Rikers, Perrini had ensured that his sometime contact had been fatally stuck with a rather nasty shank by an up-and-coming lieutenant of the incumbent African-American gang in the South Bronx, a favor arranged by an old friend at the Forty-first. The killing had been marked down to a racial slur and had therefore been logged as having nothing to do with a turf war between competing Mexican gangs.

It was a win-win for Perrini, as the freshly triumphant outfit was from then on more than generous with both their cash and their product. In fact, he had a twenty-gram bag of their finest uncut cocaine sitting in his left trouser pocket at this very moment.

He waved over the waitress to ask for another vanilla malt and saw Lina Dawetta walk into the restaurant. He watched her glance around edgily, clearly making sure there was no one she knew in there. She then walked over to the booth and sat on one of the vacant stools facing the detective.

Seeing as the restaurant was just a couple of blocks from the precinct house, bumping into somebody one of them knew was an occupational hazard, though the only time it had happened to date, Perrini had calmly fielded a sly smile from a homicide detective with whom he was on no more than corridor-greeting terms. Let them think he was screwing a lowly PAA. Though the powder was gradually taking its toll, Lina was strikingly attractive in an olive-skinned, auburn-haired Sicilian way, and Perrini knew that the unspoken code between male cops would keep his wife from ever hearing about it.

“You want something to eat?” said Perrini, smiling at the young police administrative assistant as though she were his favorite niece or beloved sister, rather than a civilian who earned a third of his detective’s basic salary.

“No. Just a Diet Sprite.”

She set down her open purse on the vacant stool beside her.

Perrini relayed the order to the waitress, then without taking his eyes off Lina or changing the smile on his face, nonchalantly removed the bag of cocaine from his pocket, stretched his hand underneath the bar-height table, and dropped the bag into Lina’s purse.

It was a point of principle with Perrini always to go first in any exchange. It promoted trust and reduced his risk should the meeting be compromised before the end. He never understood why so many people insisted on the kind of ridiculous ballet you saw in movies. He was happy to trust the other party to make good, just as the other party should trust that he would not be amused if they tried to fuck him over.

Lina took out her lipstick and compact from the purse in a practiced movement that included moving the cocaine bag to a side pocket where it couldn’t be viewed by a passing customer.

The waitress delivered their drinks as Lina ran the lipstick across her pale lips, returned both objects back to where they’d come from, then took out a folded sheet of yellow legal paper and opened it on the table in front of her.

“Hazel Lustig. Born July 18, 1947. Sister of Eileen Chaykin, nee Lustig. Never married. No children. No federal warrants. No local traffic violations. Taxes all in order. Qualified as an equine veterinarian in 1971. By 1985 had her own practice in New Jersey specializing in race horses. Sold it in 1998 and retired to Cochise County, Arizona, where she owns three hundred acres and cares for about forty retired racehorses. The ranch isn’t open to the public. Two bank accounts, both in the black. One significantly so.”

Lina slid the sheet across the table.

“Phone number?” asked Perrini after draining half his malt in one long slug.

“Home number is right there. She doesn’t have a cell phone. I also checked the cell reception in that area like you asked. It’s spotty at best. Locals and the press out there have been making noise about that, but the mobile carriers don’t give a crap.” She took a sip of her Diet Sprite as Perrini scanned the sheet. “Anything else?”

Perrini folded the sheet and pocketed it. “Not that I can think of right now, but that could change. I’ll be in touch. As always.”

“Thought you should know. They’re purging all the unused NCIC accounts. I’ll have to create a spoof login if they delete them all.”

“As long as you keep me out of it I don’t care what you do.” Perrini flashed Lina an arctic glare. A split second later, the smile with which he’d welcomed her was back.

“I’d better get back to my desk. Got a mountain of cases to key in.” She lifted her purse off the stool and turned to leave.

“Enjoy your little present,” said Perrini, gesturing to her purse. “You know there’s plenty more where that came from.”

He shot her a wink, then dropped his eyes to his malt and drained it down to the foam.

When he looked up, she was already out the door.

Twenty minutes later, Perrini was back in his car, across from Tompkins Square. He had toyed with a few different approaches, but decided to go with an angle that usually worked wonders: appealing to a person’s natural vanity, even if it was at one step removed.

He pulled out his throwaway and dialed Hazel Lustig. She answered after five rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Is that Hazel Lustig?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“My name is Daniel Shelton. I’m calling from the Historical Novel Society. I understand from Friedstein and Bellingham Literary Management that Miss Chaykin is staying with you at the moment?”

It was a gamble that Chaykin had left her aunt’s number with her agent, but if she was there for a month and the cell reception was bad, then the odds were surely stacked in his favor.

“I’m afraid she’s not here. Can I pass on a message?”

Her tone was defensive. Protective. Too late to change tack now though.

“Oh, that’s a shame. We’re running a review of her latest book—and, well, it’s a rave. I just got it, and the reviewer really, really loved it. And I thought it would be great to get an interview to go alongside it, do a little feature on her, but I’m playing catch-up here with a lot of people off on vacation and I’ve got a deadline coming up fast. Do you know when she’ll be back? We could do it over the phone, or even by email.”