Circle of Death, page 6
“The city fathers know,” says Margo. “But they’re keeping a tight lid on it. They don’t want to spook people before the fair opens. They’re afraid of spoiling the city’s image—the big comeback and all.”
Of course. The world changes. Politicians don’t.
“How did you learn all this?” I ask.
Margo raises her eyebrows. “Do you need reminding? I was a pretty fair detective before I met you.”
She’s right. In fact, she was my biggest competition before we decided to join forces. At first, all I knew about her was that she was smart and gorgeous. But I was selling her short. I had no idea how resourceful she was and good she was at cultivating contacts and informants. Maybe this is her way of telling me that she hasn’t lost it—that she’s still in the game just as much as I am.
“Are the police on it?” I ask.
“Sure,” says Margo. “But they’ll never crack it.” She leans toward me across the table. “Not without help.”
At this point, I realize that my brilliant wife is playing me like a fiddle. She knows we’ve got bigger problems to solve, and bigger battles to fight. The Command. The Destroyer of Worlds. Threats to our own lives, for God’s sake.
But she understands me better than anybody. A murderer is stalking the World’s Fair. Margo knows that this is a case the Shadow can’t possibly resist.
CHAPTER 22
MADDY LOVES THURSDAYS. Because on Thursdays she only has one class, Dilner’s Economics of Crime. Even better, it’s a lecture class. No active participation required. And it’s over by 11:30 a.m. Which leaves the whole afternoon free. As soon as the lecture wraps up, Maddy grabs Deva and they head for the main campus gate.
“So what did you think?” asks Maddy.
“About what?”
“About what Dilner was saying—about street crime being a rational choice. A financial calculation. A business decision.”
“Sorry,” says Deva. “I nodded off after two minutes. You take notes?”
“Don’t I always?”
“Good. I’ll need them.”
It’s a clear, bright day. A few blocks from campus, they reach the green expanse of St. Nicholas Park, filled with New Yorkers savoring the sun. Colorful blankets and beach towels dot the slopes on both sides of the pathway. Deva puts on a pair of sunglasses and tips her face toward the sky. Suddenly, she grabs Maddy’s arm and points up.
“What the hell is that? A freaking vulture?”
Maddy shields her eyes with her hand and squints. The huge bird is circling a few stories above them, gliding in a slow, circular descent. And rocking its wings. Maddy gets a sour, sinking feeling inside. She has a pretty good idea of what’s about to happen. Oh, shit. Why now?
“It’s a bald eagle,” she says.
“I thought they were extinct,” says Deva.
“Yeah. Not this one,” says Maddy. “Unfortunately.”
As they watch, the eagle pulls in its wings and makes a final dive toward the ground. Deva covers her head and screams. The huge bird swoops around them, so close they can feel the rush of air as it passes. It lands on a stone wall and settles like a statue, its long talons hooked over the edge.
Deva tugs on Maddy’s sleeve. “Let’s go! I’m not waiting to get my eyes pecked out!”
Maddy pulls back. “You know what?” she says. “I left my notebook in class. You go ahead. See you tomorrow, okay?”
Deva gives the raptor one last nervous look as she heads off. In a few seconds, she’s around the corner and out of sight.
Maddy walks over to the wall where the massive eagle was perched—where Dache is now sitting. He’s wearing baggy slacks with a tucked-in polo shirt.
“You look ridiculous,” says Maddy.
“Are you trying to avoid me?” asks Dache.
“If I were trying to avoid you, I’d probably just disappear.”
“Wouldn’t help. I could still see you.”
Dache hops off the wall and gestures down the path into the park. “Shall we walk?”
“It’s my afternoon off,” says Maddy. “And you’re not invited.”
“Wrong. It’s an opportunity for expanding your knowledge.”
Maddy’s frustration starts to boil. She stops and leans over her teacher. “Look. You’ve obviously studied me. My abilities. You know what I can do. I can turn invisible. I can throw lightning from my hands. I can control minds. What more do I need?”
“Your skills are rudimentary,” says Dache. “Partially developed. Inconsistent. And there are powers in the universe that extend far beyond what you know.”
“Such as…?”
Dache turns and starts walking down the path. “Such as… being able to envision the past, or the future.”
“Great,” says Maddy. “I’d like to envision a future when you’re pestering somebody else.”
Dache turns and smiles. “I treasure your wit, Madeline.”
“Again,” says Maddy. “Not my name.” She’s pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose now. Maybe it’s part of his process. Denying her individuality. Breaking down her sense of self. Or maybe he just likes to annoy her. She follows him down the path.
Dache walks slowly with his hands clasped behind his back. “Would you like to know what I can foresee for you?”
Maddy says nothing. Tries to pretend she’s not curious. But who wouldn’t be? Besides, Dache probably knows what she’s thinking anyway. “Okay. What?”
“What I see,” says Dache, “is a time when your powers will surpass those of Lamont Cranston. You will be a greater force in the world than the Shadow ever was.”
Maddy shakes her head. “No. Lamont’s the original. I’m just a pale copy. I’ve known that from the start.”
“Right now,” says Dache, “your biggest weakness is not trusting your own strength.”
“Another proverb from your pile,” says Maddy. “You’re just bullshitting me.”
“Think so?” says Dache. “Let’s find out.”
CHAPTER 23
THE ANNOYINGLY CHEERFUL monk sets a brisk pace as they walk deeper into the park. Maddy is quiet the whole way. She walks a few paces behind Dache, trying to pretend she doesn’t know him. But by the time he stops to wait for her near a renovated playground, the silence just gets uncomfortable.
Maddy realizes there’s no way to ditch her tormentor, so she decides to pump him for some family background. Make the time worthwhile. Maybe score some intelligence she can actually use.
“So how are you and Lamont connected?” she asks.
Dache stops. He taps his head—“Here”—and then his chest—“and here,” he says. Then he starts walking again.
“Right. I get it,” says Maddy, catching up to him. “Not that way. I mean where did you meet? How far back do you go? What’s your story?”
“I know what you mean,” says Dache.
Maddy realizes that’s all she’s going to get.
She follows her teacher off the path and into a secluded cluster of oak trees, soaring up more than fifty feet. Dache stops in the center of the grove. “Time for today’s lesson.”
Maddy glances around. “Here?” So lush and peaceful. “Couldn’t we just have a picnic?” When she looks back, Dache is gone. Maddy starts speaking into the open air.
“Quit it, Dache. You’re obviously here.” She turns a full 360. “Unless you took the hint and returned permanently to Mongolia, which would be too good to be true.”
Maddy feels a sharp sting on the crown of her head, like she was hit by a pebble.
She spins around and sees a couple with a baby stroller passing nearby. Not the pebble-throwing type. Then it happens again. Another hit. This time she looks up.
On a branch ten feet above, a fat gray squirrel is dropping acorns on her. As soon as Maddy spots him, the animal skitters along the narrow branch, jumps onto the tree trunk, and hops to the ground.
A second later, the squirrel is gone and Dache is back, leaning against the tree. He tents his fingers and points them at Maddy. “Your turn.”
Maddy laughs out loud. “Me? A squirrel?”
“Highly useful form,” says Dache. “Very sure-footed.”
Maddy rubs her head, buying time. She’s actually excited by the idea of shape-shifting, but she’s not sold on the example. Aren’t squirrels just rats with fluffy tails? And deep down, she has more serious doubts. What if she can’t do it? What if she can’t change back? What if she’s permanently deformed? She starts thinking of a hundred things that could go wrong.
“Lamont does cats,” she says, still stalling. “I like cats.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” says Dache. “Cats are complex. A hard form to control. Start simple. Rodentia: Sciuridae before Carnivora: Felidae.”
Maddy shifts her feet awkwardly and looks up into the trees. This is so weird. “Okay. How does it happen? Do I just imagine myself as a squirrel, and then… poof?”
“Not that easy,” says Dache. “But you absolutely have it within you to trigger the transformation. You were born with it. Trust me. I’ll guide you to it.”
Something in his tone makes Maddy stop resisting.
“Look at me,” says Dache.
She does. She really looks at him. Past the tacky dad wardrobe and the brown, wrinkled skin. She notices that his eyes seem younger than his years—sparkling and alive. And now it’s like he’s seeing straight through her. Maddy feels her mind going numb. Then, somewhere deep in her brain, something clicks. Her body starts to tighten and twist. It feels like some kind of seizure.
The next instant, Maddy’s heart is speeding at three hundred beats per minute. Her muscles feel as tight as compressed coils. And she’s almost weightless.
Now she’s flat on the ground, sensing the cool grass under her belly. Then, suddenly, she’s vertical on a tree trunk, feeling the satisfying grip of claws on bark.
A surge of energy propels her upward, higher and higher. It’s a mental and physical rush like nothing she’s ever experienced. It’s amazing!
Her senses are flooded with input. She sees the pattern of the leaves against the sky. She smells the lichens an inch from her nose and the meat in the acorns overhead. Her peripheral vision is phenomenal, like having eyes on the front and sides of her head.
She jumps from the trunk to a low branch, then runs along its length with perfect balance. She leaps to another branch. Then another. Her legs feel like springs. The part of her brain still reserved for human thought is incredulous. But the rest of her is primal instinct and acute perception. She feels totally alert and completely fearless.
Near the top of the tree, the branches narrow and bend under her weight. She senses the tremors from her nose to her tail. While the support is still strong enough, she propels herself toward a thicker limb five feet away. She makes the leap in a full stretch, feeling the air through her fur. But her calculation is off! And now the branch is an inch too far. In less than a blink, she goes from stretching to falling. The ground spins below in a greenish-brown blur and then… impact!
The jolt is hard, but surprisingly painless, cushioned by fat and muscle. A shiver shoots through Maddy’s body. She gasps. Her heart drops to two hundred beats, then slows to a hundred, then eighty. It feels like dying. Her body is heavy now, and it aches. Human again.
Maddy turns slowly, painfully, onto her back. She shades her eyes and sees Dache leaning over her. “Welcome back, Madeline.”
Maddy groans. “You said I’d be sure-footed!”
Dache smiles. “I didn’t say immediately.”
CHAPTER 24
IT’S ONLY A short walk from our place to the 19th Precinct station house, a compact four-story building with a square tower on top. Under Khan’s regime, it was occupied by his secret police, a small army of masked thugs who ruled the city by terror. But today, it’s back in the hands of the NYPD and open to concerned citizens, 24/7.
We stop at the sergeant’s desk. “Who’s the officer in charge?” I ask.
“Who wants to know?” the sergeant shoots back without looking up. Bad start. Reminds me why I went independent in the first place. Back in the 1930s, I wouldn’t have even gone to the cops on a case like this. But it’s a new day. A new century. And I’m trying to be a team player.
Margo steps forward, calm and polite. “We’re private investigators, and we’re here to help with the World’s Fair murders.”
Immediately, I sense a solid presence at my elbow, and a strong whiff of cheap aftershave.
“What murders?”
It’s a thickset man with a badge dangling from his neck. “I’m Detective Roskow,” he says with an upward jerk of his chin. “Can I help you?” Condescending and dismissive. The exact opposite of helpful.
“I’m Lamont Cranston. This is my wife, Margo Lane. We’re private investigators.”
“Private investigators. Yeah. That much I heard.” Roskow narrows his eyes and looks me over. I see a spark of recognition. “Cranston,” he says, repeating the name slowly, stretching it out. “You live in the big place on Fifth. The old presidential residence.”
“My old residence, actually,” I tell him. “I was there first.”
“You fought off Khan. In Times Square,” says Roskow. “Impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But that was a year ago, and…”
Roskow interrupts. “And now, you’re what? An amateur sleuth?”
I can feel the heat rising in my neck. “Trust me. We’re anything but amateurs.”
Margo cuts in. “Are you in charge of the case, Detective? Is there a room where we can talk? About the killings?”
Roskow scratches his pale, thinning scalp. “In terms of any killings,” he says, “let the professionals handle it. This is not a hobby.”
Margo steps right up to him. “Take us to the highest-ranking officer in the building,” she says with a smile. “Then get lost.”
Roskow nods and heads for the stairs. I lean over to whisper in Margo’s ear.
“Do you know how beautiful you are when you control minds?”
“Somebody has to do it,” she replies.
Roskow leads us up two flights to a squad room crowded with metal desks and file cabinets left over from another era. Shirt-sleeved detectives slouch in battered chairs, nursing cups of office-pot coffee. Roskow shows us to a large office in the corner. It has a glass wall with blinds pulled all the way shut. Roskow opens the door without knocking. Margo and I slip into the office as Roskow walks off. The tall woman behind the desk stands up, clearly irritated. Captain Myra Bates, according to the brass plaque near her in-basket. “Roskow!” she shouts, looking right past us. No reply.
I step up close to the front of the desk. “We just need a minute, Captain.”
She looks from me to Margo, then back again. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Lamont Cranston, and this is my wife, Margo Lane.” I feel like I’m replaying the same recording. “We’re private investigators, and we…”
Bates cuts me off. “How did you get up here? If you have a tip, the front desk will handle it.” She sits back down and starts sorting papers. As far as she’s concerned, the conversation is over.
“Captain,” says Margo, “we know there’s a killer loose on the fairgrounds.
And we’re here to offer our help.”
“We understand why you want to keep things quiet,” I add. “But killers like this don’t stop. You know that. Pretty soon, things will be out of control.”
Bates looks up. She’s pure ice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” says Margo. “Two boys, two girls, over the past five days. Ages sixteen to nineteen. Local kids. From Red Hook and Staten Island. Bodies found on the fairgrounds by security before five a.m. Still in the city morgue listed as John and Jane Does, even though you know perfectly well who they are. No notification to the families. All the parents know is that their kids are missing. Maybe runaways. Which is how you want to keep it until after the fair opens.”
Captain Bates stares back from behind the desk. “We don’t need any help,” she says. “If there’s anything going on, we’ll manage it.”
“We could choose to publicize the crimes ourselves,” says Margo. “In the interest of warning the public.”
“And I could have you arrested for criminal obstruction.”
“So you admit that murders have been committed?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
We’re talking to someone who’s stupid or stubborn or both. Or maybe just bending to pressure from above.
“You’re making a mistake, Captain,” I say.
Bates brushes us toward the door with a curt wave. “Close it on your way out, please.”
Clearly, we’re going to have to get our information the old-fashioned way. I don’t need to say a thing to Margo. She knows the drill. Out in the precinct room, I see her pinpoint the target. I duck into the men’s room. It’s smelly, but empty. Five seconds later, I emerge—invisible. By then, Margo is leaning close to a young male detective. She has his full attention, making it easy for me to scoop the file off the corner of his desk and tuck it close to my body, where it disappears, too.
I rematerialize with the file next to Margo in the stairwell as we head toward the lobby. A few seconds later, we’re out the door and walking down 67th Street, heading for home.
“How much do you think Bates really knows?” I ask.
“Not much more than we do,” says Margo. “I think she’s trying to maintain her plausible deniability status.”
“Nothing ever changes with cops,” I say. “Stuck in their ruts and covering their asses.” We stop at the curb at Park Avenue.
“That’s why the world needs the Shadow,” says Margo.
I take her hand and squeeze it as the light changes. “Don’t forget his loyal friend and companion.”
She turns and kicks me in the shin.
CHAPTER 25
BACK HOME IN the front parlor, I open the folder and lay the crime scene photos out on a low table. Hard to look at. There’s a series for each of the four victims. Margo leans in. “My God, Lamont!” We’ve both seen plenty of corpses, but these images are sickening and startling.
