Hell's Horizon

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.

I jotted down a few thoughts after my meeting with Nick. Apart from the Ziegler connection, there was the AA discrepancy to ponder. Why did Nic lie to me? Most probably she just didn’t want to admit she had a problem. A lot of people at AA meetings started out “without a problem” and were only there “at the insistence of…” (fill in the blank).

I made a note all the same — I’d need a new notebook soon if this kept up — then put it to one side and called Priscilla Perdue. No answer at home or on her cell phone, so I tried the beauty salon where she was an assistant manager. I had to brave the suspicion of a cautious secretary but finally I was put through.

“Priscilla. Sorry about the delay — journalists have been on my tail all day. How may I help?” She had a cute, squeaky voice.

“My name’s Al Jeery, Miss Perdue. I was a friend of Nic Hornyak’s. I was—”

“Al Jeery,” she interrupted, and I heard her tapping the back of her teeth with her tongue. “You were Nic’s little brown soldier.”

“Excuse me?”

She giggled. “Please don’t be offended. That’s how Nic described you. She said she was dating a big, brown, bulky soldier, with thick stubble for hair and the physique of an action doll. I was jealous.”

I didn’t know what to think about that, so I cleared my throat and said, “Miss Perdue, I’d like to discuss Nic with you. I’m running a private investigation into her—”

“Do you mind if we do this some other time?” she interrupted. “I’d rather talk about Nic outside of working hours. Doesn’t do to cry in front of the customers.”

“Of course. I’ll call after the funeral and—”

“You needn’t wait that long. I’ve been surrounded by well-wishers since news of the murder broke, but they’re all old friends and have nothing new to say. Are you free tonight?”

“Sure.”

“You have my address?” I had. “Pick me up, ten o’clock?”

“I don’t have a car,” I told her.

“That’s all right. We can use mine.”

I spent the intervening hours reading about Priscilla, preparing for our meeting. She came from a well-off family. Twenty-seven. Married for a couple of years when she was nineteen. Husband owned a chain of clothes boutiques. He was shot dead during a robbery. She got involved with his attorney, who ran off with most of her money, never to be seen again. No serious relationships since, but many short-term affairs.

The photos were few and poor, the most recent from the days of her marriage. I reported the lack of up-to-date material when handing the file back to the secretary on the seventeenth floor, from where it had come, as we were always meant to when encountering substandard data. My comments would be passed on and, within days, a team of operatives would be scanning newspapers and records, gathering photos, business transcripts, gossip tidbits, etc., updating and fleshing out her profile.

I went home to change. I hadn’t asked where we’d be going, so I didn’t know whether to dress formally. I played it safe and dressed smart-casual, tucking a tie into my pocket in case it was required.

She lived in an apartment block that put mine to shame. Couldn’t be doing too badly if she was able to maintain payments on a pad in a place like this.

I was about to buzz for her when she appeared, clad in blue, keys in her left hand. She was on the short side but otherwise as close to perfect as I’d seen in a long while. A model’s curves, wide blue eyes, round red lips, delicate cheekbones, and long blond hair that would have been any stylist’s delight.

“Al Jeery, I presume,” she said, eyes flicking over me.

“Miss Perdue.”

“Call me Priscilla. And I’ll call you Al.” She jangled the keys and smiled. “Race you to the car.” She sprinted past me, a strong stride. I had no option but to run to keep up.

She was slightly out of breath when we reached her car, an old BMW. I wasn’t.

“You’re in good shape,” she complimented me.

“For my age,” I modestly agreed.

We got in. She noticed my critical eye — the car was in poor shape.

“It’s a car like this or a cheaper apartment,” she explained.

“I thought you managed the salon.” Flattering her.

“Assistant manager. I do most of the work but my boss claims the profits. I make enough to keep me in style if I spend wisely. Unfortunately I’ve never had a head for money. It comes, it goes, and hardly any seems to be left over at the close of the weekend.”

She drove carefully, eyes glued to the road, not talking.

When she pulled up and I saw where we were — the Kool Kats Klub — I stiffened and a lot of the joy seeped out of the evening. Priscilla noted this and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

I subjected her to a level gaze. “Nice choice of venue,” I said sarcastically.

“The Kool Kats?” she laughed. “I come here all the time. What do you have against…?” She slapped her forehead and groaned. “How much dumber can I get? I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t think. We’ll leave.”

“No.” I forced a smile. She was testing me — she knew exactly what she was doing when she picked this place. “I’m fine.”

The Kool Kats Klub was better known as the Ku Klux Klub, the name it had originally opened under, until the clamoring of irate citizens forced the change. It was a nest for the racist rich. I’d been inside once with the Troops to apprehend a pedophile. The sympathy of the clientele, as I dragged the son of a bitch out, was firmly on the abuser’s side, even though they knew him for what he was.

It hadn’t changed much. All the walls painted white. White customers, white staff, even a couple of pure white cats that roamed the halls imperiously.

The receptionist’s nostrils flared when he spotted my black face bobbing into the lobby, and when he smiled it looked as if he were passing a kidney stone. “May I help you, sir?” he asked icily, hands fidgeting at the buttons of his waistcoat.

“I’m collecting for disabled Negro war veterans,” I said, just for his reaction. If his jaw had been detachable it would have dropped to the floor, sprouted legs and scuttled away in shock.

“Ignore him, Martin,” Priscilla said, taking my arm and giggling. “Mr. Jeery is my guest for the night. I trust he will be treated with respect.”

The receptionist focused on Priscilla and smiled shakily. “Miss Perdue. Of course. Any guest of yours is a guest of ours.” His eyes flared beadily over me. “Would you care to be seated anywhere in particular?”

“My usual table.”

He coughed, nodded sharply and led us to Priscilla’s “usual table,” which was situated in the center of the dining room.

“Miss Perdue,” the receptionist said once he’d seated us. He faced me and blanched. “Sir,” he added with a curt nod and hurried away.

“Thanks, Martin.” I tossed the smallest coin I could find after him. The clink as it hit the marble floor was the loudest sound in the restaurant.

Faces darkened as I was ogled by incredulous diners. Angry women whispered to their partners, who shook their heads, sneered, then deliberately turned their backs on me. A couple of boys shouted, “Look at the nigger!” and were quickly shushed by their mothers, who then quietly applauded them.

Priscilla acted as if nothing were wrong and I went along with the game, smiling vacuously, idly examining the decor, pretending to be one of the gang, perfectly at home, unaware of the arctic atmosphere.

“We seem to be creating something of a scandal,” Priscilla said as we were handed wine menus by a silently outraged waiter.

“That’s what we came for, wasn’t it?”

“Why, Al,” she gasped, eyes widening innocently. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You wanted to see what would happen when you threw Nic’s little brown soldier to the lions.”

“Al! I never—”

“Stick it up your ass,” I said pleasantly. “Let’s talk about Nic.”

“You may leave if you wish,” she said, eyes downcast.

“And miss a great meal? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She squinted at me, then nodded. “Tell me what you want to know.”

I asked about her friendship with Nic, how long they’d known each other, what sort of a life Nic had led, the men she’d dated, if she’d been in trouble lately.

They’d been best friends for years. Nic had led a full life. She’d lived fast and partied hard. There were lots of men, more than Priscilla had been able to keep up with. No trouble — everyone liked Nic.

“Is it possible one of her boyfriends grew jealous?” I asked.

“Maybe. She sometimes strung the poor dears along. I told her she shouldn’t, but Nic found it hard to let go of men. She was peculiar that way. But none of the boyfriends I knew would have done something like that.”

“Could you give me a few names?”

“I’d rather not,” she said plainly. “I told the police — I had to — but now my lips are sealed.” She leaned forward. “I thought you simply wanted to know more about Nic, because you were curious. But that isn’t it, is it?”

“I want to know who killed her.”

“We all want to know. But you plan to find out, right?” I made no reply but she read the answer in my face. “So you’re a detective too. A man of many talents.”

“I just want to make a few inquiries, help the cops if I can. A case like Nic’s is likely to slip between the cracks and never be solved. If I can uncover a suspect or some clues, I’ll pass them on to those in the know and maybe something will come of it.”

“Why not hire a real detective?”

A good question. I couldn’t tell Priscilla it was to appease The Cardinal, so I rubbed my fingers together and said, “Moola.”

“God, I know about that. So you’ve taken the task upon yourself. You’re either very brave or very stupid.”

“A bit of both. How about it, Priscilla? Will you give me a list of Nic’s old boyfriends?”

She shook her head. “I’m even less inclined to reveal their identities now that I know what you’re up to. I don’t like the idea of an amateur sleuth hounding my friends. No offense intended.”

“None taken.” Our drinks arrived, wine for Priscilla, a nonalcoholic cocktail for me. Mine had probably been spat in by every waiter in the building — twice by good old Martin — but I drank it anyway and made a show of enjoying it.

“How about a guy called Rudi Ziegler?” I asked, wiping around my lips with a napkin. “Know him?”

Priscilla hesitated, then, since I knew the name anyway, nodded. “A fortune-teller. Nic thought he was marvelous. She used to plead with me to accompany her to his séances or tarot readings or whatever it is he does.”

“You never went?”

“No. I don’t believe in such nonsense.”

“Nic did?”

“Absolutely. If it wasn’t Ziegler, it was Madam Ouspenkaya or Mister Merlin. Remember when Time ran an article about this city’s supernatural underbelly, how we have a higher proportion of mystics and crackpots than anywhere else?”

“I remember people talking about it, yeah.”

“They ran a list of names — hundreds — and Nic told me she knew practically seven out of every ten.”

“But Ziegler was special?” I asked hopefully.

She shrugged. “He was flavor of the month. She’d been hung up on others before him and there would have been others after.”

Priscilla was playing with her glass. Most of her fingers were adorned with rings, two or three to a finger. One on her left hand had a flat, round top, out of which jutted a diagram of the sun.

“Do you know anything about a brooch of Nic’s?” I asked, eyes on the ring. “There was a picture of the sun on it. She was wearing—”

“—It when she died,” Priscilla finished. “Yes. I heard. It was a present from Ziegler. I told Nick — her brother — about it when he called. And the police.”

“Think it means anything?”

“No. It was a worthless trinket. Apparently Ziegler hands out lots of similar jewelry to his clients.” She raised the hand with the sun ring and flashed it at me. “Nic got this from him too. She gave it to me because I said I liked it. I only started wearing it this morning. It reminds me of her.”

She lapsed into silence and twisted the ring a few times with the fingers of her other hand.

“Generosity was always one of Nic’s failings.” Her voice was close to breaking. “This ring’s a cheap bauble but she’d have given it to me even if it had been worth a king’s ransom.”

Another indignant waiter arrived to take our order. I’d meant to pick the most expensive dishes on the menu, but Priscilla’s sudden slide into sentiment had softened me. There was a cold edge to Priscilla Perdue — bringing me to the KKK had been a calculated act of provocation — but I had a feeling that she was warmer than she pretended. So I ordered a plain fish dish that wouldn’t leave her penniless.

We chatted about Nic some more. Priscilla had last seen her four days before the murder. Nic had been acting strangely all week, distant.

“You think she sensed what was coming?” I asked.

“Possibly. Or it may just have been one of her moods. She often fell into lengthy periods of sullen silence and went off by herself.”

“I know you don’t want to discuss her boyfriends,” I said, “but there’s one I was hoping to check on. A tall, bald, black man. Do you know if she was seeing anyone like that?”

“You mean the guy with the snakes.”

“Snakes?”

“I saw them together a couple of times. She never introduced us. Only laughed when I asked his name and said he was her snake-boy.”

“What’s the deal with the snakes? Did he own one?”

“He had two. Carried them with him everywhere.” She laughed at my confusion. “Not real snakes,” she explained. “Tattoos. On his cheeks.”

I froze.

“Are you all right?” Priscilla asked. “You look like you’ve swallowed a rotten egg.”

I counted to ten inside my head and when I spoke it was with only the vaguest hint of a stutter. “Nic was seeing a bald, black man with snakes tattooed on his face?”

“Yes.”

“Down his cheeks, one on either side, multicolored?”

She smiled uncertainly. “You know him?”

“I know of him.”

I placed my napkin on the table and stood. “I have to leave now.”

She got up as I stepped away from the table. “What’s going on, Al? Did I say something wrong?”

“No. I just have to go.”

“But the meal is on its way.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“But… Al! ”

I was gone before she could say any more.

Outside I walked fast, away from the Ku Klux Klub and its exclusive band of patrons, ignoring the hisses, catcalls and slow handclaps that accompanied my departure. I walked until my lungs pained me, then paused, doubled over, took several deep breaths, and walked some more. Finally I stopped by a deserted bus shelter and perched on one of the folding plastic chairs.

Black. Tall. Bald. Snakes tattooed on his cheeks. Only one man in the city answered that description—Paucar Wami. The city’s deadliest, most feared assassin. If Paucar Wami was involved, that was it for me. I didn’t care what The Cardinal threatened to do. I’d make an appointment, tell him what I knew, then hand in my resignation. I’d rather face the wrath of The Cardinal than the prospect of a showdown with Paucar Wami. Any day.

7

By the time I arrived home I was dying for a drink. Nights are the worst time for a reformed alcoholic, especially one living alone. The long hours of dark loneliness and need, the nocturnal thirst, memories of past, brighter, livelier nights when the bottle was your ally and the world was your friend.

I usually fought the craving with food. I’d tuck into a burger, Chinese or fried chicken, read a trashy novel and do my best to tune out the real world and its many liquid pitfalls. Tonight it was extra-important to divert my thoughts, and quickly, before fear pushed me over the edge of sobriety.

Pulling up to the curb outside my apartment, I hurried into the bagel shop. Ali was inside. I don’t think that was his real name but it’s what everyone called him.

“Hello, my friend,” he greeted me.

“Hi, Ali,” I smiled back.

“Dining at home tonight?” he asked.

“It’s cheap and the company’s good.”

He laughed. “You will not get fat this way, my friend. You need a new wife. A woman would fatten you up.”

“Then nag me about my love handles. I’d have to exercise to work the weight off. Then I’d be thin again.”

“There is wisdom in your words,” he chuckled, then turned to the bagels. “Salmon and cream cheese?”

“Four times over,” I said, licking my lips.

“Four?” he blinked.

“You said I needed fattening up.”

Ali stuck the wrapped bagels into the microwave and adjusted the setting.

“How is our friend The Cardinal today?” he asked as he handed over the bagels. According to him, The Cardinal used to go to a shop he ran uptown many years ago. I used to tell him I never saw The Cardinal but he didn’t believe me, so I’d taken to acting as if the two of us were best buddies.

“He’s fine. Asked after you the other day.”

“Did he?”

“Said you should come by some night, chat about old times.”

“I may just do that,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

I shook the bag of bagels. “I’m off before these get cold. See you, Ali.”

“Soon, my friend.”

I unwrapped one of the bagels and chewed it as I made my way up the stairs. I’d finished it by the time I let myself in and the other three didn’t last much longer. I realized I needed more food, so I hurried back downstairs to the nearby 7-Eleven and loaded up on chocolate. I spent a few hours nibbling and trying to concentrate on a biography of Ian Fleming, the guy who invented James Bond. But it was hard. Thoughts of Paucar Wami were impossible to escape from. And if I managed to momentarily forget about him, my eyes would flick to the dark marble with the gold squiggles on the mantelpiece and the worry would flood back. The marble and Wami couldn’t be connected, but it now seemed to serve as some kind of omen and looking at it filled me with unease.

Priscilla rang close to midnight, a welcome distraction. She apologized for taking me to the Kool Kats Klub and suggested another rendezvous, this time at a place of my choosing. I said maybe. She urged me to think about it — she really wanted to see me again. Also, if I was serious about investigating Nic’s murder, she’d like to help, short of giving me the names of Nic’s old boyfriends. We discussed her some more, then she hung up.

I returned to the Fleming biography but couldn’t focus. My mind kept fixing on the image of Paucar Wami with Nic. I’d never met the notorious killer but I was able to picture him — tall, dark, sinister, arms wrapped around Nic in Room 812 of the Skylight, fingers working at her back, sucking the life from her pain-contorted lips.

I put the book to one side, undressed and readied myself for bed. But sleep was harder to slip into than the biography and I spent most of the night chasing it in vain. On the few occasions I dozed off, I slept fitfully and dreamed of long, undulating snakes with forked, flicking tongues.

I got up at six, ate a slow breakfast, then cycled to Party Central to book an audience with The Cardinal. I was told he wouldn’t be available until late evening, unless it was an emergency. I said I’d wait, then headed down to a cafeteria to brood about Nic and Paucar Wami.

I’d calmed down since the night before. Though my fear of Wami persisted, I couldn’t simply march into The Cardinal’s office and tell him I was through. The Cardinal had a quick temper. I’d have to be diplomatic. I’d tell him about Wami and state my reluctance to continue. Hopefully he’d show mercy and let me off the hook.

In the meantime I decided to set up an interview with Rudi Ziegler. That way I could face The Cardinal with proof that I hadn’t been sitting around idle.

I requested Ziegler’s file, expecting a slim volume like Nic’s, only for a thick ledger to arrive. I took it to a private reading room and pored over it. It was mostly lists of his clients and the details — where known — of what he’d been up to with them, how much he was milking them for. I skipped the bulk of it and focused on his background info.

Rudi Ziegler was his real name. Fifty-one, of Eastern European stock. A bachelor. No close family. No clashes with the law. Declared about ninety thousand annually but drew in the region of one-fifty to two hundred. Had a good reputation but wasn’t above ripping off wealthy old women. Went abroad every year for a month’s vacation. Didn’t own much in the way of property apart from a moderate villa on a Caribbean island. No business interests outside of his own.

He specialized in Incan guides. From what I could gather, every medium has a spirit guide who helps put him in contact with the dear departed. Usually it’s an Indian or a little girl, but Ziegler preferred Incas. And — this caught my attention — the Incas used to worship the sun.

I scribbled swiftly. “Incas — sun worshippers — Nic’s brooch — Priscilla’s ring — carving on Nic’s back—connection??? ”

I was hoping there’d be dirt on him — clients who had mysteriously vanished, contacts of his who’d met with nasty ends — but I couldn’t find any. If The Cardinal didn’t yank me off the case I’d return to this file, but the day was wearing on and I wanted to be back in time for my big meeting. I returned the file, then called Ziegler — an answering machine. His cell phone cut directly to voice mail. I pondered my next move. I could wait and call again, or I could head over and try catching him at home.

I was in no mood for waiting, so I tucked Ziegler’s address away in a pocket, fetched my bike and went searching.

Rudi Ziegler lived above a butcher’s shop in a run-down part of the city. I parked out front and chained my back wheel to a fire hydrant. The lower hall door was open, so I entered. The smell of blood tracked me up the stairs like a dog. I found his door and knocked.

A sleepy Ziegler answered. He was overweight, flesh hanging off him like warm wax. Quivering gray lips, red spiderwebs for eyes, purple, vein-shot cheeks. There was a half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand. He was dressed in a shabby robe and moth-eaten slippers. Hard to believe this wreck of a man drew a couple of hundred grand a year.

“May I help you?” he asked in an oddly lyrical voice. I took another look at him, surprised the throat had survived the ravages of drink when all else hadn’t.

“Rudi Ziegler?”

“None other. Come in, please.” I followed him in and he shut the door. “Do you drink?” he asked, offering me a swig. I shook my head. “Wise man. Demons dwell within.” He blew his nose into a satin handkerchief and studied me. “You’re here about Nicola, aren’t you?”

I twitched. “How did you know?”

“I have my ways,” he said, lowering his face so that it darkened and split into a wizardish smile. “She came to me in a vision last night and said I could expect a stranger to call and ask intrusive questions. She told me not to cooperate.” I stared, edgy, until his laughter took the spine-tingling sting out of the moment.

“A joke,” he sighed. “The dead don’t talk to me, despite what my business card says. I’ve just had so many people here this last week, first detectives, then the police, that I’ve grown accustomed to their inquisitive appearance. Besides, my clients don’t turn up uninvited.”

“What detectives?” I asked curiously.

“They didn’t leave names. Nor did they tell me what they wanted. It was only when I heard about her death that I figured it out.”

They must have been The Cardinal’s men, the ones who put the file on Nic together.

“May I ask some questions, Mr. Ziegler?”

“By all means. Follow, dear boy, follow.” He led the way through to a large room that served as his work chamber. The walls were covered with billowing curtains and the scent of incense hung heavily in the air. A large table dominated the center of the room. Clothes and bric-a-brac were scattered untidily everywhere I looked. A huge sun medallion was pinned to the ceiling.

When we were seated I told him who I was, explained how I wasn’t a detective, just a concerned friend. He said it didn’t matter, he’d talk to me anyway. I started off by asking about his profession. “Is this where you work?”

“It is.” He cast an eye over the room. “Though it’s usually not in such a state. Nicola’s death left its mark.” He shook the bottle of vodka. “You wouldn’t see this out so early on a normal day.”

“Can you tell me more about what you do? Do you tell fortunes, locate missing people, speak with the dead?”

“A bit of everything. I’m a dabbler.” He stood and tidied some magazines away. “I provide whatever my clients wish. If they want their fortune read, I put the crystal ball or tarot to good use. If they want to speak to the dead, I oblige — I’m quite good at throwing my voice. If they want to see the dead, I do that too. Mirrors and smoke. Projected images.”

“You’re very open about your deception.”

“I have nothing to hide from those who are not interested in hiring me.”

“How about dark magic?”

“I don’t believe in magic,” he snapped. “I trade in tricks, shadows, illusions. Nothing else.”

“But if your client believes, and wants to see demons and devils, what then?”

“I turn them away. Illusions stretch so far but no further. I’m good, Mr. Jeery, a professional. But I have my limits.”

“You don’t dabble in the dark arts at all?”

“Never. I use Ouija boards and cards, but never in the right way, never—”

“The right way?” I was on him in a flash.

“The correct way. The actual—”

“You just said you didn’t believe in any of that.”

“I don’t, but—”

“Then surely any way’s the right way.”

He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief and downed another shot of vodka. “I don’t believe,” he said softly, “but one encounters things in my line which cannot be explained, apparitions which cannot be accounted for. Are they demons? Souls of the dead made visible? I don’t know. I simply play games with the forces of the arcane. Games are all I’m interested in.”

“Was Nicola Hornyak only interested in games?” I asked.

“No. At first she was happy with what I had to offer — my bag of voices, Incan spirits, clouds of fog and changes in temperature. But she soon wanted to take it further.”

“How far?”

“She wanted…” He laughed. “She wanted a lover. A spirit lover. She wanted to screw a demon.”

“Christ.”

“I fobbed her off for a time with vague promises — I claimed to be privy to certain ancient rites — but eventually, when pressed, had to say that I was afraid of opening up dark portals which were best kept closed. That sort of garbage.”

“Why not tell her the truth?”

“And put myself out of business? I never tell my clients they’re barking up banana trees. You don’t get rich that way.”

I mused on his words, then asked what happened next.

“She moved on.”

“To another mystic?”

“I’m not sure. She came a few more times, but not as regularly as before.”

“When did you last see her?”

“About a month before her death. Maybe three weeks.”

“Why did she come?”

“To show me her demon lover.”

I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“She came with a menacing-looking black man. According to her, he was her lover from beyond. She wouldn’t tell me how she’d contacted him, but said he was everything she’d ever wanted, and more.” He giggled into a fist. “I’d love to know what he did to convince her of his credentials.”

“What did he look like?” I asked, though I already knew.

“Very dark-skinned. Tall. Bald. Tattoos of snakes on both cheeks.”

“Did he speak while he was here?”

“No. He remained in the background. She was only here a few minutes. Popped in to show him off and then she was on her merry way. Off to make whoopee with Beelzebub.”

That clinched it for me. Nic ran into Paucar Wami while playing games, he toyed with her until she ceased to amuse him, then killed her. But I decided to press ahead with a few more questions — if, as I hoped, this interview marked the end of my career as a private detective, I wanted to go out on a high note.

“You know Nic was wearing a brooch when she was found?”

“One of mine. Yes. And an image of the sun had been carved into her back.”

I nodded at the sun symbol attached to the ceiling. “You use Incan spirit guides, don’t you?”

“Yes. They add an exotic touch.”

“Could Nic’s death tie in with any of that? Might the killer have been one of your other clients, somebody—”

“I doubt it,” he interrupted. “The Incas were as brutal as any other conquering nation, but they weren’t savages. Besides, they worshipped the sun. If Nic was intended as a sacrifice to Incan gods — which is what you seem to be suggesting — she’d have been murdered during the day, for the sun god to see. And why murder her at the Skylight? You’ve heard of the Manco Capac statue?”

I was about to say I hadn’t when I recalled The Cardinal pointing out some cranes to me. “Yes.”

“That would be the perfect location for a sacrifice. If Nic had been killed there, I’d say pursue the angle. As things stand, a much likelier explanation is that her killer noticed the brooch and copied its design, perhaps to throw a red herring into the works.”

That made sense, though I didn’t admit it out loud.

“Did she ever bring anybody else here?”

“No. I prefer to meet clients on a one-to-one basis.”

“Who introduced her to you?”

He hesitated. “One of her friends. I forget her name. She attended a few sessions, then quit not long after persuading Nicola to come. Hasn’t been back. I’ve never had a good memory for names.”

On impulse, I produced one of the photos of Priscilla I’d taken from her file, the best of a bad lot. “This her?”

He masked his look of recognition quickly — barely more than a slight lift of his eyebrows — but I’d been trained to notice the most minor body tic. “I’m not sure,” he said. “The face looks familiar but I really couldn’t say.”

He was lying. Priscilla had lied too — she’d told me she’d never been here.

I pocketed the photo and stood. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Ziegler.” He rose, smiling. “You don’t have any names you could pass on? Other mystics she’d have been likely to visit?”

He lifted his hands helplessly. “I could give you a dozen. But I’m not part of a network — I rarely make referrals. I have no idea who she may or may not have seen. You can try calling around but I doubt you’ll get very far. Only a two-bit operator would reveal a client’s name, and Nicola was not the sort to get involved with merchants like that. She was cautious. Lighthearted but not light-headed.”

“Well, thanks again.” I shook his hand.

“Glad to be of assistance,” he said. “She was a lovely lady. She did not deserve to meet with such a horrible end.”

“If I need to contact you again?” I asked.

“Any time. Mornings are best, when I’m at my quietest. But if it’s urgent, any time.”

“Great.”

“Take care, Mr. Jeery,” he said and closed the door.

I hurried down the stairs, the smell of blood rising from the shop below, sticking in my nostrils, to my clothes, my hair. I’d need a shower when I got home — wouldn’t do to visit The Cardinal stinking like a gutted pig.

The mystic knew Priscilla. And she knew him. I could understand Ziegler’s covering up — client confidentiality — but why would Priscilla lie about something so trivial?

I waited two hours to see The Cardinal, at the end of which I was told he would be unavailable for the remainder of the night. Cancellations weren’t rare — his time was at a premium. Members of government and foreign dignitaries had been stood up many times before me, so I didn’t take it personally. I rescheduled for three o’clock Sunday afternoon and took the elevator down to the basement, where I changed out of my uniform again.

A light breeze was blowing at my back most of the way home and I coasted along with it. As I pulled up outside my apartment block a light went on in a car parked several feet farther up. I glanced over and saw Howard Kett hunched behind the wheel, eyeing me coldly. The light went off and I knew he wanted to see me.

Leaving my bike, I went to see what Kett was after. I let myself in the passenger door. We sat in darkness for all of a minute, saying nothing, Kett staring directly ahead. He was an old-fashioned cop. Big heart, big hands, big, thick head, of Irish descent. Did a lot of community work in his spare time. Solid gold if you were a law-abiding citizen, one of hell’s demons if you weren’t. He had a special loathing for The Cardinal and those who served him.

“You’re an arrogant son of a bitch,” he finally growled.

“You came all this way just to tell me that, Howie?” He hated the nickname. “You should have phoned.”

“I came this morning but you were gone. Been sitting here more than an hour.”

“Again — the phone.”

“You were banging that Hornyak kid.” No beating around the bush. The insolence would have startled me if it had been anybody else. With Kett, I expected it.

“So what?” I said as evenly as I could.

“Why didn’t you come forward when you heard what happened?”

“No point. I was out of town when she was killed. Nothing to tell. I figured, if you wanted to question me, you’d come. And here you are.”

“Did Casey know you were seeing her?”

“No,” I lied.

“Bullshit,” Kett snarled. “I always said his friendship with you would be his downfall. If I find out he knew you were involved with her and deliberately suppressed the information, he’s finished. I’ll drum him out myself.”

“Bill’s my friend, not my confessor.” I leaned back in the seat and flicked on the overhead light. Kett immediately quenched it — he didn’t want to be seen. “What’s up, Howie? Planning to beat a confession out of me?”

“Like you wouldn’t have a team of The Cardinal’s finest lawyers on me in ten seconds flat if I did.” He prodded me in the chest. “But I’ll tell you this, Jeery, if you bother Nicholas Hornyak again, I’ll do more than slap you around.”

“What’s Nick Hornyak got to do with anything?” I asked quietly.

“I know you were pestering him.”

“How?”

“I have my sources,” he said smugly.

“All I did was ask some questions. He didn’t—”

“You don’t have the right to ask shit!” Kett roared, then lowered his voice. “You were humping the broad — so what? So was every leprous son of a whore with a one-inch excuse for a dick. Don’t interfere, Jeery. This isn’t your business.”

“Whose is it? Yours?” I laughed. “You don’t have a hope in hell of finding her killer.”

“That ain’t here and that ain’t there. I’m paid to check on dumb bitches who go and get themselves fucked over. You aren’t. I don’t want you sniffing around.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“No?”

I smiled in the darkness. “No.”

Kett cursed quietly. “Let’s talk about this reasonably. We don’t have to be at each other’s throats. You were right when you said we probably won’t find her killer, and if you want to waste your time chasing him, I won’t try blocking you — though I could if I wanted,” he insisted. “But I’ll leave you be as long as you don’t go meddling where you shouldn’t.”

“I’m listening, Howie.”

“Nicholas Hornyak didn’t kill her.”

“I never said he did.”

“So why question him?”

“That’s a dumb question for a cop to ask,” I chided him.

“OK,” he bristled. “You wanted to learn more about her, where she came from, what sort of a life she led. You wanted to rub him up for clues and contacts. I get it. But that’s where it ends. Don’t go near him again.”

“Why? Has he got something to hide?”

“No. But he likes his privacy.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Sure, but Hornyak’s got the money to protect it. He has friends in high places, who know people like me, who don’t like it when he runs to them with tales of being manhandled by some punk ex-humper-of-his-sister.”

“I didn’t manhandle him. I asked some questions. He answered politely. We parted on good terms. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“I don’t care what you see or what you think,” Kett sneered. “I’ve warned you nicely — stay away from Nicholas Hornyak. Next time it might not be a cop that’s sent. And it might be more than a verbal warning.”

“You threatening me, Howie?”

He laughed. “Now who’s asking the dumb questions?”

“These friends of Nick’s,” I said slowly. “Don’t suppose you’d care to pass their names on to me, so I could drop them a line and let them know—”

“Out,” he snapped, reaching over and opening the door. I swung my legs out and stepped onto the pavement. “This conversation never happened,” he hissed. I smiled at him in answer and slammed the door in his face.

Upstairs I dug out my notebook and jotted down a brief transcription of my encounter with Kett. When I was done I read over what I’d written, scratched behind my ears with the tip of my pen and wondered what it added up to. I’d said nothing to Nick to warrant such treatment. I’d had no reason to suspect him of any involvement with the murder. Until this.

It didn’t make sense. Sending Kett after me had only raised my suspicions. I found it hard to believe the sharp guy I’d found playing pool in the Red Throat would make such a clumsy move, implicating himself when there was no need. He might be toying with me — using the ever-serious Kett to mess with my head — but so soon after his sister’s death?

Something was foul. Howie or Nick had made a dumb move by coming down on me. But the fact that I couldn’t figure out which it was, or why they’d done it, hinted that I was dumber than both of them. The sooner The Cardinal pulled me off this crazy case and put me back on patrol at Party Central, the better.

8

I was passing a peaceful Sunday morning in bed, enjoying the lazy silence, when someone knocked on the door. I groaned, shrugged off the covers, pulled on a pair of shorts and a shirt, and went to see who it was. I discovered a skinny mulatto kid on the landing, leaning on a skateboard almost as big as himself.

“Help you, son?” I said as pleasantly as I could.

“Al Jeery?”

“Yeah.”

“Fabio asked me to fetch you. Says he needs your hands.”

It had been a couple of years since Fabio last called but I knew instantly what he wanted. “Give me a few minutes to change,” I said, and slipped back inside.

I asked the kid where we were going when I was dressed but he wouldn’t tell me — insisted on leading the way. He hopped on his board, waited for me to mount my bike, then set off, cutting a fair pace through the quiet streets. I had to be sharp to keep up, especially when he turned corners in a screech of dust and vanished halfway down dark alleys while I was struggling to brake and correct my course.

It was a muggy day and I soon began to wish I’d stuck with the shorts, but it was too late to turn back. I just had to sweat and bear it.

My guide led me deep into the south of the city, its literal heart of darkness, where members of the Kool Kats Klub feared to tread. It was familiar territory — I’d grown up here — but I hadn’t been back much since marrying Ellen and moving out.

The skater stopped outside a six-story building of sorry-ass apartments, most of which were occupied by squatters or those existing just above the poverty line. “He’s in 4B,” the kid sniffed.

“Thanks.” I started up.

“Hey! He said you’d tip.”

I eyed the grifter suspiciously. I doubted he’d have skated all the way over and back unless he’d been paid in advance. But I have a soft spot for cocky runts, having been one myself. I tossed a balled-up note that he caught in midair. Leaped back on his board and disappeared. Didn’t occur to him to thank me.

I climbed the creaking stairs to the fourth and found Fabio in a chair outside the apartment, sipping a beer, waiting patiently. Fabio was the city’s oldest pimp, a hundred and three if rumors were to be believed. He’d been a big shot once, long before The Cardinal came to power, but these days he eked out a meager living from a handful of aging ladies of the night. He called them his retirement posse.

“Morning, Algeria,” he greeted me in his slow drawl.

I took his wrinkly, age-spotted hand and shook it gently. He’d been good to me when I was growing up. Running errands for him had kept me in pocket money and he’d watched out for me when my mother died.

“How’re the hands?” he asked, turning them over to examine my palms.

“Haven’t used them a lot lately,” I sighed. “Not since you last called me out. The drink put paid to that.”

“You’re off it now though, ain’t you?”

“Trying.”

Fabio stroked the smooth palms. “Reckon you can still work the magic?”

“I’ll try,” I said, “but I can’t promise.”

“That’ll do for me.” He stood and pushed through the open door. A large black woman was on the floor of the tiny but tidy living room, playing with a boy no more than six or seven years old. She looked up at me and smiled.

“Algeria, this is Florence,” Fabio introduced us. “Flo, this is Al Jeery, the guy I was telling you about.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Jeery.” She had a warm voice.

“Same here, ma’am,” I replied, then cocked an eyebrow at Fabio. “Her or the kid?”

“The kid. Father’s doing fifteen — killed a guy in a brawl. Used to be pretty free with his belt when he was around. Maybe worse, but we ain’t sure about that. Kid’s been having nightmares for months. Flo’s tried explaining that he don’t have nothing to fear, the bastard’s locked up and won’t be coming back, but it ain’t helped. He’s a bright kid but falling to pieces. Barely sleeps, tired all day, gets into fights. She had to take him out of school.”

“He should see a psychiatrist,” I said.

“Look around,” Fabio snapped. “This look like the Skylight? Flo’s one of my girls but she’s barely working — spends all her time fussing over the kid. She can’t afford no goddamn psychiatrist.”

“Is that why you’re helping her, because she’s not earning for you?”

He snickered. “You know me inside out, Algeria. But that don’t change the facts — this kid needs help, and it’s you or it’s nothing.”

Fabio knew I was a sucker for a lost cause. This wasn’t the first time he’d tugged at my heartstrings to manipulate me, but I never could bring myself to hate him for it.

“I’ll give it a go,” I sighed, removing my jacket. “But if he resists, or it doesn’t work first time, I won’t push.”

“It’ll work,” Fabio assured me, then nodded at Flo to stand.

“What’s your son’s name?” I asked.

“Drake.” She was nervous. “You won’t hurt him, will you?”

I smiled at her. “No. Fabio’s explained what I do?”

“Kind of.”

“There’s no risk involved. It works or it doesn’t. Worst case, Drake goes on like he is. Do you have a pack of cards?” She handed them over. She’d been holding them since before I came and they were warm from the heat of her hands.

I knelt and waited for the kid to look up and catch my eye. When he did I smiled. “Hi, Drake. My name’s Al. I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

He studied me suspiciously. “Are you gonna take me away?” He had a thin, reedy voice.

“Why do you think that?”

“My daddy said if I wasn’t good, a man would come and take me away.”

“But you’ve been good, haven’t you?”

“I been kicked out of school,” he said, half-ashamed, half-proud.

“That’s nothing. I got kicked out of four schools when I was a kid.” It was the truth. “Does you good to have a break from all that teaching.”

“What were you kicked out for?” Drake asked.

“Can’t say. Not in front of a lady.” I winked at Flo. “Want to see a card trick?”

He perked up. “Is it a good one?”

“Best around.”

“My friend Spike does tricks. He taught me a few.”

“I bet he’s never shown you one like this.” I started shuffling slowly. “Keep your eyes on the cards.” I shuffled for a minute, then slapped four cards down on the floor. “Pick one but don’t tell me.” He ran his eyes over the cards. “Picked?” He nodded. I gathered the cards and shuffled again. “Watch the deck. Don’t look away even for a second. Trick won’t work if you do.”

I speeded up the shuffle, speaking softly, telling him to keep watching. I flipped the deck over, so he could see the faces of the cards, and moved up another few notches, telling him to watch the colors, focus on the numbers, concentrate.

After a couple of minutes I laid down another four cards. “Is one of them the card you picked?” He gazed in silence, as if he wasn’t sure, then slowly shook his head. I picked them up and shuffled again. This time I didn’t have to tell him to watch the cards — his eyes followed of their own accord.

Three or four minutes later I laid the cards aside and waved a hand in front of Drake’s wide-open eyes — no reaction. I smiled tightly at Fabio and Flo. “It’s working. Have a pillow ready for when I’m through.”

I placed the index and middle fingers of both hands on either side of Drake’s head and softly massaged his temples. I crossed my legs and sat opposite the boy, hunched over so our heads were level.

“Look into my eyes, Drake,” I whispered. “Focus on my pupils. Do you see cards in them? Colors?” He nodded. “Concentrate on the colors and count to fifty inside your head. Can you count that high?” He shook his head. “Then count to ten, five times. Can you do that?” A nod. “Good boy. When you’re done, close your eyes and sleep. But carry on listening to what I’m saying, OK?”

I continued rubbing his temples while our gazes were locked. I tried not to blink. I spoke as he counted, commenting on the colors, the bloodred hearts, the night-black clubs, the sparkling diamonds, the plain spades. When he closed his eyes I took a deep breath, let my lids shut and pressed my forehead to his.

“Breathe slowly,” I said. “Take a breath, hold it for five seconds, let it out, then breathe again.” I breathed the same way and within a minute we were coordinated, lungs working in harmony, as if connected. My fingers never stopped at his temples, neither slowing nor quickening.

“I want you to think about your nightmares, Drake. Who appears in them?” I felt his frown and his head shook slightly. “It’s all right. You can tell me. Nobody can hurt you while I’m here. Who appears in your dreams?”

“Daddy,” he said quietly.

“Think about your dad. Focus on him and the way he looks when you sleep at night, the things he does. Are you doing it, Drake?”

“Yes.” He was frightened but he trusted me.

“Now I’m gonna help you push the nightmares away. You feel my head against yours?” A nod. “Imagine there’s a tunnel between them, linking us. It’s wide, as wide as it needs to be. You see it, Drake?”

“Black,” he whispered.

“Yes. But you needn’t be afraid. It’s only a tunnel. There’s red in it too, if you look closely. Can you see the red?”

A pause, then, with excitement, “Yes! Red. Like the cards.”

“Exactly. That’s all it is, Drake, a tunnel of cards. Are you afraid of it?”

“No.” Positive this time.

“Good. Now take those nightmares, all the pictures of your father, and push them down the tunnel. It’s easy. They’ll slide along like ice cream through a cone on a really hot day. Are you pushing?”

“Yes.”

“Push steadily, until they’re gone from your head, every one of them, so that they come out the other end of the tunnel, on my side.”

“They’re bad dreams. I don’t want to give them to you.”

“It’s OK,” I said, touched by his concern. “They can’t hurt me. I know how to deal with them.”

A long silence followed. I felt Drake pushing as told, his tiny muscles quivering as he thrust. I pictured his bad thoughts spilling into my mind and mentally slid them to the rear of my brain as they gushed in, rendering them harmless.

Eventually he went limp and started to fall away from me. I held him in place with my fingers and said, “Don’t move, Drake, not yet. We aren’t finished.”

“I’m tired,” he moaned.

“Me too. But it won’t be much longer.” When he was straight, I rubbed the sides of his head again. “Are all the nightmares gone?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Good. Now I want you to close the tunnel. Just pull at a few of the cards and the whole lot will come tumbling down. Are you pulling, Drake?”

“Yes.”

“Are the cards collapsing?”

“No, they’re… Yes! Now they are. Falling everywhere.”

“Is the tunnel gone?”

“Almost. It’s going… it’s… gone.”

I sighed deeply and peeled my head away from the boy’s. I left my fingers where they were and kept my eyes shut. “When I remove my hands, I want you to lie down and rest. You’ve done a lot of good work today. Don’t fight sleep when it comes — you’ve got nothing to be scared of anymore. The nightmares are gone. You got rid of them; they won’t ever come back.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes. You pushed them down the tunnel, then tore it apart. There’s no way back for them. Understand?”

A pause, then, “No way back.”

“Gone for good?”

He nodded.

“Count to ten now, Drake, and when you get to the end, I’ll let go and you can sleep. Do you want to sleep?”

“Uh-huh,” he yawned.

“Start counting.”

When he reached ten he toppled. I caught him by the shoulders, then opened my eyes and called for the pillow. Fabio laid it on the floor and I leaned the boy down, positioning his head so it rested on the soft material, then tucking his arms in and straightening his legs.

“There,” I said, sitting up, exhausted. “He should be all right now. He might be a little confused when he wakes. Treat him carefully for a day or two, give him plenty to eat, keep him inside. If he seems OK after that, let him out to play, then try him at school when they let him back in.”

“Will the dreams return?” Flo asked, standing over the sleeping boy, a look of uncertain hope etched into her features.

“I doubt it. If they do, send for me and I’ll try again. But he should be fine.” I told Fabio I’d only give it one shot, but that was before meeting the boy. It’s never easy to be clinical once you become personally involved.

“You want something to eat or drink, Algeria?” Fabio asked.

“A glass of water and some fresh air.”

“Coming right up.”

Flo coughed and looked sheepish. “I can’t pay you, but in a month or two—”

I raised a hand. “Send me a card next Christmas, tell me how he’s doing and we’ll call it quits.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jeery,” she sobbed, taking my hands and squeezing hard.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I replied, “for trusting me.”

Fabio handed me the water, I gulped it, then he led me downstairs, into the open, to recover.

I’d been curing people since I was a kid, guided by Fabio, who’d been the first to note my calming influence. He’d spotted me hanging around, befriending wild cats and dogs. I used to slide up to them, ignoring their growls and raised hackles, talking softly, extending my fingers. Within minutes they’d be flopping over onto their backs, offering me their stomachs to rub, letting me play with their ears and feed them scraps.

Fabio initially tested me on a scattering of people plagued with migraines. He found that by talking to and touching them I was able to bring measures of relief to their lives. After that it was troubled friends of his, old men and women who sat around mumbling to themselves, tormented by visions of the past. I’d hold their hands and talk, and they seemed lighter of spirit when we departed. One old dear said she’d had her first full night of sleep in twenty years after my visit.

Fabio helped me develop my skills, modeling my techniques on those of other healers. We tried various methods before settling on the cards, which suited me best. Fabio hoped to make a killing, bring me along slowly, keep it low-key so I didn’t attract the attention of sharper operators. Then he planned to launch me on a wealthier clientele and make them pay through the nose.

Things didn’t work out that way. My mother was proud of my healing abilities but believed it would be immoral to profit from them. She blocked Fabio’s efforts to turn me into a cash cow, coming down hard when she caught him pulling a sly one behind her back, terminating contact between us for months at a stretch.

He tried convincing me to go on the road with him when she was gone but she’d died slowly, horribly, and for a couple of years I wanted nothing to do with sick people. I turned my back on my powers, on the ill, on Fabio. He remained a friend — maybe because he liked me, maybe because he thought I’d come around in the end — but by the time I got my life back on track I was part of the Troops. The lure of the healing profession had passed me by.

Resigning himself, Fabio settled on asking for occasional favors, only calling me when he was in a fix. Nobody other than Fabio and those I helped knew of my powers. I never advertised. I didn’t want hordes of miracle-worshippers camping out on my doorstep.

I’d no idea where the power stemmed from. I didn’t believe in God; I hadn’t made a study of the phenomenon; it wasn’t something I sought or cherished. It was just a talent I’d been born with. Maybe it was the city — as Time had attested, these streets were paved with supernatural wonders. Perhaps some of the wonder had rubbed off on me.

I’d almost forgotten about the power these last few years. Alcohol had screwed up my head. I could hardly help others when I was in dire need of aid myself. And since sobering up I’d had more pressing matters on my mind — divorce, staying sober, work, piecing together a new life.

I thought about it while sitting in the wreck of a burned-out car with Fabio at the foot of the block. I brooded upon the old questions: How do I do it? Can any harm come of it? Is it spiritual, physical, psychological? Did I really help Drake or had I just driven the demons deep for a while?

Fabio sighed and patted me on the back. “You ain’t lost your touch, Algeria. You were smooth. Way quicker than you were last time I called you out.”

I grunted, recalling the hours I’d spent on his last “customer,” another of his street maidens, a young woman who’d been in and out of mental hospitals her entire life. I was still drinking at the time. I seemed to help her, but a few months later she plunged to her death in the river.

“Thinking about Cassie?” he asked. “That wasn’t your fault. She was messed up bad. If anybody was in the wrong, it was me, for letting you at her in the state you was in.”

“Think I could have saved her today?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Who knows? A kid like Drake hasn’t had time to let the pain sink deep. Different when a sufferer’s older and the trouble ain’t so easily identifiable. You tried. That’s the most any of us can do.”

I stared up through the fire-eroded roof, letting the sun warm me.

“Feel good?” Fabio asked.

“Yeah.”

“You should do it more often.”

I smiled. “Hire a tent? Preach the Bible? Go out into the world and cure the masses? Earn a fortune?”

“That ain’t what I’m talking about. You got a God-given talent, no matter what you believe. It’s a sin to waste it, working for The Cardinal, staining your hands with blood when you could be using them to heal. It ain’t right.”

“I couldn’t do this full-time, Fabio. It’s nice to come here every so often, do a good deed and go back feeling like the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. But the Troops are my life. Party Central’s where I belong.”

“A man of healing don’t belong nowhere but among those who need him.” Fabio sniffed righteously. “You should be helping people live, not killing them.”

“I don’t kill many,” I replied, low-voiced.

“Makes no difference. You got a calling. I’m no holier-than-thou missionary — I’ve killed in my time, yes I have, and I’d do it again if I had to. But you…” He scowled. “I’m wasting my breath, ain’t I?”

I sighed. “This is the path I’ve chosen.”

“OK. I’ll shut up.” He turned and smiled. “How’s life otherwise? Get over the shock of finding your woman in the Fridge yet?”

I shook my head, bemused. “How’d you know about that?”

“I pick things up.” He wasn’t boasting. Fabio was as close to the heartbeat of this city as anyone I knew. I decided, since he’d brought it up, to ask a few questions. There was no telling what I might learn from an old gossipmonger like Fabio.

“Any idea who killed her?”

“Nope. Word is it was a crazy, maybe from out of town. A john she picked up somewhere and—”

“A john? She was a pro?”

“You didn’t know?”

I shook my head, stunned.

“She wasn’t a regular. And she kept it quiet. Nobody would have known, except sometimes she’d ball a guy in an alley or take him back to her apartment or a fancy hotel, and he’d talk, bragging the way you do when you’re young.”

“Nic was a hooker?”

“An amateur. That could be another angle — she might have tricked where she shouldn’t, or rubbed a pimp up the wrong way. But word of that would’ve spread. My money’s on the john.”

Nic’s being a pro changed everything. I’d been looking for boyfriends when it seemed I should have been scouring the streets for clients.

“Did you know any of her customers?” I asked.

“A couple, but they’re both in the clear — I did a bit of checking. As for the rest, I haven’t a clue. I never heard of her going with the same guy twice. You can ask around but I doubt you’ll unearth anything. Your best bet is to have a chat with a bitch called Priscilla Perdue. They used to—”

He stopped when he saw my face falling.

“Know her?”

“I had a drink with her last night.”

“How come?”

“I didn’t know much about Nic. I’ve been trying to put together a clearer picture. It seems important now that she’s gone.”

“Uh-huh.” If he guessed I was lying, he kept his suspicions under wraps. “That Perdue’s a nasty piece of work, ain’t she?”

“She seemed sweet enough,” I hastened to her defense. Then I remembered the Ku Klux Klub. “A little rough around the edges.”

“She got no edges,” Fabio chuckled. “She’s sharp all over, like a porcupine.”

“She said nothing to me about Nic being a hooker. Is she one too?”

Fabio shrugged. “She sleeps around like a whore, but I don’t think she does it for money. She’s a strange bitch. Used to dress all in black a few years back, holes in the skirts around her bush, so everyone could see. Walked around with her tail in the air, like those posh-ass cats in the Pepé Le Pew cartoons.”

“Think she had anything to do with the murder?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, but it’s not something I’d assume. As far as I know she’s never been into anything other than old-fashioned sleaze.”

We chatted a bit more about the two girls — he had no further revelations — then life in general. He asked how I was getting on at Party Central. Since he didn’t seem to know I’d been reassigned, I said everything was fine. I started to ask after old friends but then noticed the time and said I had to run.

Fabio told me not to be such a stranger, to call again soon. I said I would but we both knew it was an idle promise. I asked him to keep me apprised of Drake’s progress and let me know if the nightmares returned. We parted with a handshake and a few words of farewell, then I was on my way to Party Central for my meeting with The Cardinal.

He was seated by the window when I entered, playing with a puppet, looking pensive. When he spotted my reflection in the glass he turned and brightened.

“Al!” he boomed. “If you’ve cracked the case already, I’ll be impressed.”

“Afraid not,” I grinned ruefully. “I’ve made some inroads but that’s not why I’m here. There’s a problem…”

I told him about my meetings with Nick, Ziegler and Priscilla, the descriptions of Nic’s companion each had presented me with and my belief that the man was Paucar Wami. He listened silently, his face a blank.

“You’ve been busy,” he grunted when I finished, laying aside the puppet.

“I thought I should tell you about him before I went any further.”

“You did right.” He began biting the nails of his right hand. “Tell me what else you’ve discovered about her.”

I went through the past three days as fully as possible. I told him about Nic’s secret sex life and her connection with Priscilla Perdue, about Ziegler, his sun symbols and pretending not to know Priscilla. He said nothing, letting me tell it my own way.

“You think she may have been a sacrificial lamb to the god of the sun?” he asked at the end.

“Probably not. She introduced Wami to Ziegler. If Wami killed her, he might have carved the sun symbol into her back to point the finger of guilt at the medium.”

“You believe Ziegler’s innocent?”

“He knows more than he’s admitting, but I don’t think he killed her.”

“You think it was Paucar Wami.”

“Yeah.”

“And if it wasn’t?”

I shrugged. “A john who did it for kicks.”

He nodded slowly, then said, “It wasn’t Wami.”

“Oh?” I didn’t dare say more.

“You’re forgetting the way she was killed, the messy slashes. The experts say it was the work of an amateur.”

“That could have been intentional,” I suggested. “He might not have wanted to be linked to the death. It may have been done to throw us off the scent.”

The Cardinal smiled. “You know nothing about Paucar Wami. He’s killed under many guises in his time, but never pretended to be anything other than a professional. He takes pride in his work and fears no one. He would never spoil the beauty of a kill.”

“You think killing’s beautiful?” I kept a neutral tone.

“I can take or leave it. But to Wami it’s an art form. He has made death his life’s study. It’s all that interests him. Murdering in this fashion would be entirely out of character.”

I shifted on my feet — he hadn’t asked me to sit — and cleared my throat. “Sir, you’re correct when you say I don’t know anything about Paucar Wami. But he’s a killer. And I know he — or somebody fitting his description — was seen with Nic in the weeks prior to her death. In the absence of other concrete suspects, I think it would be lunacy to—”

“Are you calling me a lunatic?” The Cardinal asked. He didn’t seem insulted, merely curious.

“No, sir,” I checked myself. “Of course not. But I think we should explore this. If he’s out of town, we can cross him off our list. But if he’s here and he was the one she was seen with…”

The Cardinal was silent awhile. When he spoke, it was over his fingernails, and only barely audible. “Wami is here. He took out Johnny Grace a couple of days ago.”

I rolled onto the balls of my feet as though to breathe in the fumes of proof. I wanted to shout, “There! You see!” but didn’t. Instead I held my tongue and let The Cardinal draw the conclusions himself. After a long pause, he spoke.

“If Wami is the killer — and I still harbor strenuous doubts — we must tread carefully. He’s not a man to cross lightly. I’d like to know his reasons for killing Nicola Hornyak, and why he chose the Skylight, but I won’t push. Knowing it was him would be answer enough.”

I phrased my next question as cautiously as possible. “Do you need me to ask him? I believe you’ve had dealings with Paucar Wami in the past. Couldn’t you get in contact and…?”

The Cardinal’s face darkened. “Are you telling me how to run my investigation?” he snapped.

“No, sir, I was just—”

“Just nothing!” he roared. “If I wanted to call Wami, I’d call him. I don’t need a flunky like you telling me—”

He cut himself short. I stood quivering, fearing for my future. After a few seconds of seething silence, he grinned wickedly. “Stop shaking. I’m not going to eat you.”

“Could I have that in writing, sir?”

His grin spread. “I like you, Al. We’ll get along fine if you don’t tell me what to do. I’ve never been one for taking orders, even in the form of polite suggestions. I could contact Paucar Wami and put the question to him myself. But I won’t. That would be cheating.”

“Cheating who, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Thee and me, Al. I promised you a chance to make a name for yourself. It wouldn’t be fair to deny you after you’ve made such an impressive start.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” I hastily interjected.

He laughed throatily. “I’d also be cheating myself out of a good show. It’s drama of this nature which renews my faith in life. Ordinary diversions bore me. Alcohol, drugs, books, gambling, women — all are wasted on me. Do you know what keeps me going, Al? People out of their depth. I thrive on it.”

“Some call that sadism.”

A potentially perilous answer but he dismissed the notion with a snort. “Sadists enjoy watching people suffer. I prefer to see people triumph, or at least put up a good fight as they go down. The thought of a confrontation between you and Paucar Wami fascinates me. If he threatens your life, will you run or stand up to him?”

“No doubt about it,” I said. “I’ll run.”

“I don’t think so,” The Cardinal smiled. “That’s why I chose you for this. Not because I knew about Wami’s possible involvement but because I sensed situations of this nature might develop, situations which would exhaust a normal man but which one of your resolve and resources might endeavor to surmount.”

“What resolve and resources? I don’t have any.”

“You sell yourself short,” he contradicted me.

He could be an infuriating son of a bitch when he wanted. How can you argue with a man who’s full of praise for you?

“What happens now?” I asked. “I go after Wami, he kills me, you look for a new source of entertainment?”

“Possibly,” The Cardinal nodded. “Though it needn’t pan out that way. I think we should grant Wami the benefit of the doubt. If you approach him diplomatically, you might emerge from the encounter unscathed. Plus, if he is the killer, I won’t demand his head, just proof. If you can pin him to the scene of the crime without confronting him, all the better.”

“If I made a formal request to be transferred—”

“—I’d turn it down.”

I put on a brave front. “And if I quit?”

“Resign from the Troops?” The Cardinal stroked his nose. “That would be… disappointing.”

“Would you punish me?”

“No. I’d wonder how I’d misjudged a man so badly, then dismiss you from my thoughts and leave you to eke out a worthless, shameful excuse of a life.”

“Who gave you the right to pass judgment on me?” I snapped.

“Nobody,” he replied coolly. “I took it.” When I looked away, disgusted, he slid into sympathetic mode. “It’s not me you stand to fail — it’s yourself. Be honest, hasn’t it felt good to be out on your own, following your instincts, homing in on the truth?”

I nodded slowly. “I’ve enjoyed it more than I thought I would.”

“Because this is what you were meant for. Not so much the investigating, rather the use of your mind. You’re one of those rare beings with the power to create your own destiny. I’m trying to free you. That’s not my main motive — the game appeals to me the most — but that’s the true prize for you. All I get out of this is amusement. You can gain freedom.”

“You’re the original Good Samaritan, aren’t you?” I chuckled.

“More the genie of the lamp,” he answered earnestly. “I can make dreams come true, but at a price.”

“What’s my price?” I asked.

He shrugged. “That’s the thing — you never know until you wish.”

“If I stick with it,” I spoke my thoughts aloud, “what’s the next step?”

“Locate Paucar Wami. Reconstruct his movements on the night of the murder. Explore his relationship with Miss Hornyak. If you can arrange an audience, it will be easy to ascertain whether he’s guilty or not — Wami does not lie.”

“Never?”

“Not about killing.”

“A killer with an ethical code. Cute.”

“It’s ego, not ethics. He can afford honesty since he lacks fear. He speaks the truth because it can’t hurt him. Those who would seek to use his words against him are easily eliminated.”

“If he killed Nic, and tells me, will he kill me too?”

“If he thinks you’ll become a nuisance… maybe.”

The Cardinal’s honesty was refreshing but unsettling. I decided to meet it with some of my own. “How much cooperation can I expect if I go after him? You’ve been protecting Paucar Wami for decades, keeping his name out of the media, quashing reports, quelling gossip. Are there files on him?”

“None that I care to share. We have an understanding — I keep tabs on him but keep them to myself. In return, he doesn’t kill me.”

“Wami couldn’t get to you,” I said.

“Paucar Wami can get to anyone he likes,” The Cardinal replied. “Only the dead are beyond his reach. Any man who thinks differently is a fool, and Mama Dorak raised no fools.” The Cardinal’s real name was Ferdinand Dorak, though he rarely used it.

I hesitated, not wishing to capitulate without the semblance of a struggle. I asked more questions about Wami, which he deflected. He even refused to give me a full description, revealing no more than what I already knew, that Wami was tall, dark, bald and tattooed. I requested photographs, fingerprints, contact names, past addresses — all denied.

Eventually he checked the time and said I had to leave — business couldn’t grind to a halt on my account. He needed a decision. Was I on the case or not?

I should have backed out. I could sense the stakes mounting. Paucar Wami wouldn’t be easy to find or talk to. This was my chance to cut my losses and run. Tuck my tail between my legs and slink out like a skunk.

And I would have, pride be damned, if not for The Cardinal’s raised eyebrows. He expected me to quit. Provoked by that look, determined not to gratify the smug son of a bitch, I stuck out my hand, took The Cardinal’s, looked him in the eye and said as pompously as possible, “Mr. Dorak, I’m your man.”

9

I reported to Party Central first thing Monday morning and spent hours locked away in the vaults of the upper floors, trying to make sense of the phenomenon of Paucar Wami.

He was one of the city’s most vivid yet mysterious legends. I’d heard rumors of his monstrous deeds while growing up and, for a long time, I thought he was a fairy-tale monster. I didn’t believe such an assassin could exist outside of fiction. I wrote him off as a bogeyman and it wasn’t until I joined the Troops that I realized the stories were true — and that I’d only been exposed to a selection of them.

Yet even to the Troops he was a mythical shadow, rarely seen, never openly discussed. New recruits learned by word of mouth never to mess with Wami. If you spotted him lurking around Party Central, you let him pass. If you encountered him on duty, you turned a blind eye. He was the invisible man.

Yet it was only when I went searching for him in the files that I began to understand how low-profile he actually was. He’d been around since the tail end of the seventies, murdering freely. The records should have been bulging with mentions of his name. But there was no trace of him. His name was absent from all the newspapers and police reports that I had access to. No birth certificate. No school statistics. He’d never paid taxes. Wasn’t listed on medical forms. Owned no property. No cars or guns registered to him.

In the course of my investigation I noticed entries that had been tampered with. It wasn’t the first time I’d encountered such reappraisal. The Cardinal liked to write the history of the city his way, regardless of the facts. If that meant altering headlines and articles in the newspaper archives, so be it. If fresh film footage was required to replace clips that contradicted his version of the truth, his technicians — first-class graduates of the film industry — digitally tampered with the originals.

The Cardinal refused to share his personal files on Wami, and as far as the accessible data went, the man was a ghost. After several frustrating hours I abandoned the computers and dusty old files, and went looking for the truth on the streets.

As a Troop, I had all sorts of dubious contacts. I was sure I’d find lots of snitches who’d talk. And I did, but only to a point. Plenty of people were willing to swap Wami tales with me, usually in return for nothing more than a drink. The difficulty was separating reality from invention. Wami had pulled off so many incredible stunts, it was possible to believe anything about him. Normally, if someone spun a yarn about a lone assassin wiping out a twelve-strong Triad faction with his bare hands, I’d dismiss it. But I knew the Triad story was true because I’d been on mopping-up duty that night.

Some of the tales were ludicrous bullshit, those that claimed he moved at superhuman speeds, lifted cars above his head and scaled walls like a spider, breathed fire and disappeared into clouds of smoke, didn’t bleed when cut. But most, far-fetched as they might seem, were plausible.

For all the larger-than-life accounts, I was no wiser at the end of the evening than at the start. I’d learned much about his methods, targets and aliases — he was known by many names, some of which I jotted down to check on later — but nothing about where he came from, what motivated him or how one tracked him down. He had no accomplices. There was no procedure for hiring him. Nobody had a photo of him, an address or a phone number. He seemed to be without relatives, friends or a past.

I put out a few feelers, asking to be notified if he was spotted or if anybody could tell me about his history. Then, having taken the first steps toward locating the famed killer, I decided I’d had enough of Paucar Wami for one day. It was time to explore other angles. Time to talk to the staff at the Skylight.

The manager was out when I arrived but the assistant manager recognized my name from a memo that had been doing the rounds. He placed himself at my disposal and said I’d been cleared to speak to whomever I wished. If anyone refused to cooperate, I was to refer that person to him and he’d sort things out.

I spent the afternoon talking to all the staff I could find. I learned nothing. They hadn’t seen anyone suspicious lurking in the corridors of the eighth floor, and only a lone receptionist remembered seeing Nic the night of her death. Even the Troops who guarded the doors and fire escapes were no help. I hadn’t expected them to be — the brief was different for Troops assigned to the Skylight. At Party Central we were told to suspect everyone and make our suspicions known. Here the Troops were under orders to look away. The Skylight wasn’t a fortress. Guests were supposed to feel at ease.

One person objected to my questioning — Valerie Thomas, the maid who had discovered Nic’s body. She was a big woman, ugly, with a disdainful streak the width of a river. She was doing her chores when I caught up with her and refused to pause. I had to chase her around from room to room while we talked.

“She was dead when you found her?” I asked.

“She wasn’t doing no dancing,” Valerie snorted.

“The coroner put the time of death very close to when the body was found. It’s possible she might have been alive when you entered. Did you check?”

“You know what I did,” she said. “I saw the body and screamed. I didn’t go anywhere near it.”

She didn’t strike me as the screaming kind.

“You’re sure? A lot of people would check for a pulse, or just hang around and stare for a while. If you did look at her or touch her, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I opened the door,” she said. “I saw the body. I screamed. I didn’t go near it.”

She could have sung her testimony.

“You saw nothing on the floor or bed?”

“Just the knife.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“No jewelry, money, anything like that?”

She stopped and stared at me. “Are you accusing me of theft?”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I hastily assured her. “It’s just, if I saw something on the floor, a diamond necklace or a roll of money, and it was lying there, easy pickings, nobody around, I’d—”

“I saw nothing,” she snapped. “I picked up nothing. I’m clean. Ask the boss. I haven’t stolen a thing, ever, even if a guest has checked out and left it behind. I hand in lost property. You ask. I saw and took nothing. You accuse me of theft again, I’ll throw this bucket of water in your face.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. But there’s a dead girl involved.”

“I know. I found her.”

I took a deep breath. “Good day, Miss Thomas,” I said, offering my hand, which she ignored. “Thanks for your time.”

“Piss off,” she replied curtly. So I did.

I dropped in to 812 in the course of my rounds. The room where Nic had been butchered was no different from any of the other rooms but it felt colder, emptier. I circled the neatly made bed, imagining Nic bound to it, gagged, struggling, screaming silently as her life was cut out of her. It had been slow, painful, clumsy. It must have been awful.

Could I have saved her if I’d been in town? Had she favored me with her company in return for protection? Did she die cursing me for letting her down? Or was I the furthest thing from her mind, a guy she’d just picked up for sex? I’d probably never know. She was gone now, and all her reasons and answers had gone with her.

The manager, Terry Archer, turned up before I left. I mentioned Valerie Thomas to him and asked if there was anything suspicious about her. He shook his head. “She’s been a foul-tempered bitch since the day she started. Even speaks to me that way. But she’s a hard worker. I’ll take a rude workhorse over a polite layabout any day.”

“Might she have taken something from the room?”

“It would be out of character if she did.” We were in Terry’s office. He leaned back in a leather chair and yawned. “Sorry. This murder’s played havoc with my schedule. I spent the weekend shacked up here, dealing with irate policemen, trying to keep the peace between them and the Troops.”

I smiled. We were forever in conflict with the cops. They hated having to play second fiddle to a band of mercenaries. They loved any excuse to barge in and read the riot act.

“Find out anything?” Terry asked.

“No. I thought somebody might have recognized her but…”

“Thousands of customers pass through the Skylight every day,” he sympathized, “and those are only the official guests. More use the restaurant, bars and function rooms. If somebody doesn’t want to be noticed, they aren’t.”

“What did the police make of it?”

“At first they reckoned she’d tagged along with a one-night stand. Then they discovered she was a sometime prostitute. They decided it was a client she’d brought back or met in the hotel.” He didn’t seem too sold on the theory.

“You don’t agree?”

“The Skylight has its share of nightwalkers, like hotels the world over. But it’s a closed shop. Unwanted competition is harshly dealt with. Even an amateur hooker knows better than to bring a trick here.”

“Maybe one of the regular girls took offense and…” He was shaking his head before I finished.

“Some of them are vicious enough, but they wouldn’t do it here. They know better than that. They’d have taken her elsewhere.”

“Perhaps she was a regular,” I suggested. “Maybe this wasn’t the first time she used the Skylight. Have you any way of checking?”

Terry reached into a drawer, produced a slim purple file and tossed it across. I opened it to discover a long list of names, both male and female.

“Every hooker’s name is registered,” Terry said. “Even those who only use our rooms once in a blue moon.”

“They let you tag them?” I asked, scanning the names.

“It works to their advantage. Those on the list aren’t troubled by security. Room discounts. The first to be called when a guest requests company.”

“What if one of them—”

I stopped. The file contained close to twenty sheets, not just names, but phone numbers, contacts, sexual specialities, background details, medical histories, even photos. Near the bottom of the sixth sheet, a name jumped out at me. Priscilla Perdue.

Terry noticed my pause and leaned over the table, craning his neck. “Priscilla Perdue,” he muttered. “Blond. Very upmarket. Has a thing for women.”

“A thing for women?” I repeated.

“I believe so. It doesn’t say here but I think it’s mostly those of the fairer sex she swings for.”

“Does she use the Skylight often?” I asked.

“Once or twice a month. You always know when she’s around. She blazes in, customer in tow, acting like a movie queen. In fact we’re not sure if she’s a pro or not — word is she doesn’t charge — but we put her on the list all the same.”

“Do you have a photo of her?”

“No, but I can get one.”

“Please.”

I read the profile while Terry had a photo e-mailed across. There was nothing I didn’t already know — height, weight, measurements, place of work. Even the photo, when it came, was familiar, one of the shots from the file in Party Central.

“Mind if I quiz some of your staff again?” I asked.

“Quiz away,” Terry said.

An hour later I left the Skylight in a daze. Plenty of the staff recognized Priscilla from the photo but it was the response of three in particular — a receptionist, a barman and a waitress in the ground-floor bar — that set my head spinning. All ID’d her and then, in answer to my second question, “When did you last see her?” replied—

“Friday before last. She checked in by herself.”

“Friday last week. Ordered a pi≁a colada. Took it to a table in a corner. Nobody with her that I saw.”

“Friday, I think. Not this one — a week further back. I collected her glass after she left. She barely touched it. She was on her own, but I think I recall seeing somebody drop by her table not long before she left.”

Priscilla had been in the Skylight when Nic was killed.

10

Nic’s funeral was the next day. I’d been of two minds about whether or not I should go but on the morning I decided I couldn’t miss it. I wasn’t a funeral connoisseur — hadn’t been to any since my mother’s — but this was different. It was business.

There was a police cordon outside the crematorium to keep back the press and spectators. Only her closest relatives and friends were being admitted. My name wasn’t on the list and the cop on duty refused to admit me. A quick call to Bill fixed that and I was soon being waved through.

The small funeral parlor was nowhere near capacity. It was almost time for the ceremony yet I counted only fourteen heads. Nick was up front, dressed soberly. Priscilla was beside him, weeping into a handkerchief, clutching the hand of a woman I didn’t recognize.

Rudi Ziegler was seated near the rear of the room. He was weeping loudly, letting the tears course down his face unchecked. Nearly everybody was sobbing, except me and Nick. I didn’t cry because it would have been hypocritical — I hadn’t known her that well. What was Nick’s excuse?

Nic rested in a rainbow-hued coffin molded out of some kind of plastic. The top quarter was transparent, so we could see Nic’s head and shoulders. She was a beautiful corpse, serene as only the dead can be. Her face had been left unmarked by her assailant and I couldn’t stare at it for long without getting a lump in my cynical throat.

I got a shock when the priest emerged — it was Elvis Presley! Forelock and sideburns, wiggling hips, flares, white suit with sequins. The mourners burst into smiles when they saw him striding to the head of the coffin. Obviously this was an in-joke I wasn’t privy to.

He gave a nice speech. Said Nic had been a life-loving woman, deep, honest, thoughtful, with far more to her character than the frivolous front she showed to the world at large. He said this was how Nic had wanted to go, with lots of color and a touch of merry madness. If she was looking on, he hoped she was enjoying the show. “This one’s for you, Nic,” he mumbled in his best Elvis impersonation, then launched into “Heartbreak Hotel,” a cruel choice in my opinion.

As he gyrated, two of his assistants — both dressed as glam rockers — emerged from the sides and loaded the coffin onto a conveyor belt. Elvis stood to attention and crooned “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah,” slipping off into the shadows as he sang. Somebody threw a lever and the coffin glided backward, Nic’s final journey.

Rudi Ziegler howled at that point, stumbled to his feet and brushed past me, lurching for the exit, sobbing pitifully like an old drama queen.

A few of the mourners glanced over their shoulders. Priscilla was one of the curious. She spotted me and frowned, then smiled weakly and mouthed the words, “See you after?” I nodded. The coffin began to disappear through the curtains and she diverted her gaze, took Nick’s hand and squeezed. He still hadn’t shed any tears, though he looked shakier than before.

I ducked out. I’d seen enough. I knew what would happen behind the curtains — the body would be taken, incinerated, the bones fed into a machine to be ground into ash — but what would they do with the coffin? Respray and use it again? Give it to Nick to take home? I could have asked one of Elvis’s assistants, who’d come out and was scattering large, scented flowers along the hall floor, but I wasn’t that desperate to know.

The mourners filed out, turning left as they came, following the path of flowers. I stood to the right of the door, military stance, hands crossed in front of my abdomen, head bowed as a mark of respect. Most of the guests ignored me but one old man paused and half turned. I started to raise a hand and smile, then saw his blank white eyes. I lowered the hand and coughed politely instead of smiling. His head twitched, then he nodded to acknowledge my presence, listened for the footsteps of the others and strolled after them.

Nick and Priscilla came last. I was about to step forward to offer my condolences but she spotted me and shook her head. She led Nick along — he was walking mechanically — handed him over to one of his friends, then backtracked.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, kissing my cheeks. “Nic would have liked that.” Her eyes were red. She was clad in a dark dress that sexily accentuated her curves. I tried not to focus on it — I didn’t want to get a hard-on in a crematorium. It would have seemed disrespectful.

“I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome,” I muttered.

“Of course you are.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “I just didn’t want Nick to see you. He’s been bottling his emotions in and I think he’s looking for an excuse to explode. You might have been it.”

“What was with the Elvis routine?” I asked.

Priscilla smiled. “Nic loved Elvis. This was what she would have wanted.”

“Who chose the song?”

She winced. “I did. It was Nic’s favorite. I only realized how inappropriate it was when he started singing. I could have sunk through the floor.”

She glanced up the corridor. Nick had disappeared from sight. “I’d better head after him. He’s arranged a wake at the family home. Invited a load of friends, most of whom hardly knew Nic. It’ll develop into an orgy if there’s nobody sensible to control things.”

She started away.

“Could we get together sometime?” I asked. “Dinner? A drink? There are some questions I’d like to ask.”

“Of course. Not tonight, though. How about tomorrow?”

“Great.” I hesitated. “You’re not thinking of taking me to the Kool Kats Klub again, are you?”

She had the good grace to blush. “I apologized for that already. How about Cafran’s? Know it?”

“I can find it. Seven?”

“Fine.”

She departed.

I stood there a few minutes, letting her coast out of sight, then slowly followed. Outside the mourners were getting into their cars. I looked around for the blind man, wondering whom he was leaving with, but couldn’t locate him. A journalist moved in to take a photo of me but the cop who’d barred my way earlier stepped in front of him and sent him on his way.

“Didn’t think you’d want your picture in the papers,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” His eyebrows lifted. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Elvis emerging, peeling off his sideburns. “One of the mourners?” the cop asked.

“No. The priest.” He checked to see if I was pulling his leg. Chuckled when he realized I was serious.

“Wish I could have been there. Did he sing?”

“Like a bird.” I asked to see the list of mourners and jotted down the names for future reference. Looking through them, I frowned and recounted. “There’s only thirteen.”

“That’s right.”

“But there were fourteen at the service.”

“Including you, yes.”

“I mean without me.” I thought about the blind man and asked if the cop had noticed him.

“No. And I checked everyone through.”

“Could he have entered another way?”

“I can check with the guys on the other doors. Most likely he was from another party and got lost, or else he’s a professional mourner who squeezed in before we came.”

“A professional?”

“There’s always a few hanging around. They drift from funeral to funeral. Want me to look into it?”

“Don’t bother. It’s not important.” I tucked my notebook away, thanked him for his help and took one last look at the palace of the dead. I shivered as I spotted a stream of smoke rising in the air, then turned my back on the crematorium and hurried away.

I couldn’t rid myself of the image of Nic writhing inside the oven — or whatever it is they use to burn the bodies — flames creeping over her flesh, consuming her whole. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my mind on work, so I put the case to one side for the rest of the day and headed over to the Fridge to pay a belated call on another member of the unto-infinity club.

A girl called Velouria noted my request, checked my credentials, then tapped the name “Tom Jeery” into a computer. It came up blank. “When was he left here?” she asked.

“I don’t know the exact date. Early to mid-eighties.”

“Then he probably won’t be on the database.” She keyed out of the screen and rose. “We can’t transfer names without permission — the system’s too easy to hack into. We only started putting them on disc in the late nineties, checking whether we should or not as each new inhabitant was brought in. Never bothered backdating — too much hassle trying to track down relatives or connected personnel.”

“You’re saying you can’t find him?”

“Of course we can,” she sniffed, “unless he was entered as a John Doe. But it’ll take a while. Without a precise date I’ll have to go through the entry books. Do you want to leave it with me and come back?”

“I’ll wait,” I told her and settled into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs.

I wasn’t sure what I hoped to gain by the visit. I’d hardly ever dropped by my mother’s grave, and I’d loved her. Maybe I hoped to unleash a flood of memories when faced with his tomb. Though my father hadn’t spent much time around the house when I was growing up, I was sure I must be harboring more memories of him than the meager few I was currently aware of.

Several doctors and assistants passed by as I was waiting, barely glancing at me. I was surprised when one stopped and addressed me warmly.

“Lost another girlfriend?”

I didn’t recognize the grinning doctor when I looked up, but placed him within the few seconds it took to rise and take his hand. “Dr. Sines.”

“Bit of a shock last time you were here,” he chuckled. “Recover yet?”

“Just about. They buried her today.”

“Oh?” He didn’t seem overly interested. “They normally hold on to the body for longer in cases such as these. She must have had relatives with connections.”

An impatient colleague of the doctor’s, who’d been marching with him, asked Sines if he was coming. Snappy, as if he had no intention of waiting around.

“In a minute,” Sines snapped back. “So, find out where she was murdered yet?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nicola Hornyak. I heard you were handling the investigation. Have you located the scene of the crime or are you still searching?”

“I don’t understand. Nic was killed at the Skylight.”

He laughed humorlessly. “You haven’t been keeping up to date. From the subcutaneous particles we discovered — the dirt in her cuts — she wasn’t attacked in the hotel. She died there, but the wounds were inflicted earlier, possibly on a building site, judging by the sand and industrial dust.”

I stared, boggle-eyed. “Why the hell wasn’t I informed?” I roared.

“Don’t ask me. I passed on our findings, first thing Saturday. The state coroner reached the same conclusion, I hear, although he’s been persuaded not to go public with the news.”

“Who did you tell?” I growled.

“It was FMEO.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“For My Eyes Only. My being The Cardinal.”

“You told The Cardinal?”

“Yes. He mentioned your name and said he’d pass it along. Thanked me and asked me to keep it quiet. Which I have.” He frowned. “Until now. I assumed you knew. He said he was going to… You won’t tell him I let it slip, will you?”

I shook my head slowly. “Not if you’ll keep me informed of any subsequent developments. Let me give you my number.” I texted it across to him.

“There’s nothing else to tell,” he said. “I e-mailed my report to The Cardinal, but it was a long-winded version of what I’d told him already. The assault took place somewhere other than the hotel. Her assailant may have thought she was dead when he took her there — she can’t have been too lively when she was dropped off. She died a few hours later, around the time her body was discovered.”

“And you think she was tortured on a building site?”

“It’s a strong possibility. Or it may have been in a garage or somebody’s backyard — the materials could have been present there too.”

Velouria returned, smiling, holding a file to her chest. “When you’re ready, Mr. Jeery.”

“I have to go,” I told Sines.

“You’re not the only one.”

“You’ll call me if anything new crops up?”

“It won’t, but if it does, I will.”

“Thanks.”

The news had knocked me soaring out of bounds. Nic hadn’t been murdered in the Skylight. What bearing did that have on the case? For starters it seemed to rule out the single-killer theory. The Troops guarding the hotel weren’t the most alert but they wouldn’t fail to spot somebody dragging in a corpse, not unless someone else distracted them. Perhaps one of them had been in league with the killer. And what of Priscilla? I knew she’d been in the lobby and restaurant the night of the murder, which had seemed to implicate her. But if Nic had been killed elsewhere…

I’d have to spend more time on this. I wasn’t thinking clearly at the moment, so I pushed it to the back of my mind and left it there. I’d return to it later, in my apartment, after a good meal and a long shower.

I followed Velouria through the maze of cubicle-lined corridors. My brain kept throwing Sines’s words back at me but I refused to be drawn into the marsh of possibilities. I was here to pay my respects to my father. Nic could wait.

The geology of the maze shifted subtly the farther we progressed. The style of the containers changed — they were larger, rounded at the edges, some decorated with brass or gold fixings. There were fewer per row — some even stood by themselves — and flower-basket frames hung from hooks on the doors (though bouquets were scarce). Velouria noticed my interest and explained that this was an older section of the Fridge. The original designers had tried to inject a modicum of warmth, unaware of its true purpose. The current administrative team was planning to renovate in the near future — they could fit twenty percent more bodies in once the coffins were streamlined — but that would be a monster of a job, which nobody was looking forward to.

Velouria stopped at the second cubicle in a row of six. They were stacked two high. My father’s was on the lower bunk. I stared at his name, embossed on a thin strip of metal. No file was attached. I inquired about that and Velouria checked her notes. “The information on these older inmates is often sketchy. Most were simply dumped here. In some cases they didn’t even give us a name. We might have a file on him somewhere. I can look it up if you want.”

“No need.” I read the name again and cleared my throat. “I’d like to be alone.”

“Sure. Want me to wait nearby or can you find your own way out?”

“I’ve got a good sense of direction. You can leave.”

“If you get lost — and, trust me, it’s easier than you’d think — buzz for help and we’ll send someone to find you.”

She left and I was alone. With my father.

I ran my fingers over the name and shivered as I realized that this could be me one day, locked away in one of these cramped cubicles, never visited or disturbed. If I had children — not that I had any current plans — would they wind up standing here as I was, tracing my name with their fingers, wondering what their old man had been like?

I stood around for a couple of minutes, waiting for memories to flood back, but they didn’t. I resurrected my old snapshots of him but found nothing new. Maybe if I saw the body…

I didn’t act on the thought straightaway. He’d been here a long time. The refrigeration process couldn’t be relied upon. The body might have decayed. I could find myself face-to-face with a rotting-flesh zombie like those moviemakers are so fond of. The picture I had of Tom Jeery was of a tall, strong, healthy man. Did I want to risk replacing that with an image of a time-eaten corpse, sunken cheeks, exposed bones and a fetid stench?

I decided to peek. Though it hadn’t been easy to look at Nic in the crematorium, I was glad I had. I had a final image of her to cling to, which drew a line between the live and dead Nic. It was good to look upon the faces of the dead.

I considered checking with Velouria before proceeding, but he was my father — if anyone had the right to violate his final slumber, it was me. I studied the door. Some of the newer models came equipped with computerized locks but this was a plain old spin-lock, no keys or codes required. I spun the wheel slowly. There was a crackle when the door opened, a hiss of cold air, then I felt the slab slide forward a few inches of its own accord before shuddering to a halt.

I wiped around my brow, took firm hold of the door, swung it back, grabbed the slab and tugged. It resisted, then slid out smoothly, a wave of white icy gas rising from it, causing me to cough and avert my eyes. When I’d recovered, I leaned into the misty fog, waving my hands, dispersing it. The slab came into focus and I held my breath, searching for my father’s face.

The mist lifted. Only wispy tendrils remained. And when they cleared…

Nothing. The cubicle was empty.

I remained rooted to the spot, wondering if the body had slipped to the floor or remained jammed inside. I bent over and peered in — nothing. The floor was clear too. I checked the sides of the container, but it was solid.

As I withdrew, a small object caught my eye. A piece of paper lay in the space where my father should have been, neatly folded in half and resting on its edges. I picked it up and stepped back, mind going in a thousand different directions all at once. I checked one more time for a corpse — as if I could have missed it! — then unfolded the paper with trembling fingers and read the three short words printed in black across it—OUT TO LUNCH.