Ragman, page 15
It all sounded like hallucinations to Dan, and he said so.
“It’s true that a lot of these people suffer from mental illness,” she agreed, “and some abuse drugs or alcohol. But not all of dem. And even those that do, dey not incoherent all the time. Something bad happening. Too many people seen it, and not just in this neighborhood.”
Dan understood her frustration. LeCroix was typical of the people who ran private or public shelters. Dedicated, overworked, and underpaid. Permanent bags under her eyes said she hadn’t slept well in months, and the sour smell of her breath told him she was probably on her fourth or fifth cup of coffee, even though it wasn’t noon yet. Indigestion, headaches, and heartache were part of life for her and those like her.
But it also meant she knew the people who moved through her mission better than anyone. If she said something was going on, there probably was.
Whispers in the ear, and then they die. Poison, perhaps? A needle, or something in a piece of food? He hoped not. The last thing he needed was a serial killer on the loose when he had much bigger things to worry about. Hopefully, it would turn out to be nothing but paranoia and gossip. Then he could—
“Dey say he turns folks into mummies.”
Dan jumped at the word.
“Mummies? What does that mean?”
LeCroix rubbed her face. The phone rang and someone in the other room shouted Chantal’s name. She reached for the phone, but before she picked it up, she fixed Dan with a hard stare.
“When those people found, dey all shriveled, like dey been dead for a hundred years.”
Henry Gordon’s building turned out to be a twenty-five-story complex less than two blocks from where the Benton family lived, although it might as well have been half a world away. It always amazed Tom how city neighborhoods could change so drastically from one street to the next. The Bentons had money, and their apartment probably cost more than Tom had made in all his years as a cop.
Gordon’s penthouse suite didn’t compare to the opulence of the Prescott or Banks residences, but it still made the Bentons’ place seem modest.
Done in an ultra-modern chrome and white marble style that made Tom feel like he should don sterile lab gear, the wide, rectangular lobby boasted several pieces of abstract modern art comprised entirely of clear crystal formed into vaguely anthropomorphic shapes. A bank of elevators lined one side of the foyer, while the other side held several unmarked doors Tom assumed led to offices for the building’s operations and business managers. At the far end, a long reception counter done in ebony marble occupied the shorter wall. Two men dressed in black suits stood behind it.
Tom stopped as the thick glass doors whooshed shut behind him and Joanna.
“I still think this is a bad idea,” he whispered from the side of his mouth, while keeping his gaze forward.
“We’ve been over this. Without Dan, you need me here.”
She’d called him in the morning while he was getting dressed to say she had to go with him to see Gordon. Before he could object, she’d reminded him that his privileges had been revoked by the police. In turn, he reminded her that Dan would by royally pissed if he found out. Still, he couldn’t deny she was right. Without police credentials, he stood no chance of getting in to see Henry Gordon again.
“Okay, let’s do it,” he said, praying their visit didn’t get back to Captain Green.
Or Dan.
They approached the front desk, where the guards eyed them with all the emotion of lizards.
“Joanna Reeves, Crime Lab, and Tom Gordon, police liaison, here to see Henry Gordon.” Tom held out his ID and one of the men, whose name tag read ‘Alphonse’, took it. The other, ‘Lawrence’, reached for Joanna’s. His jacket slipped open, revealing the strap of a holster. Alphonse glanced at his partner and showed him Tom’s ID.
“PI,” he said, his baritone voice carrying more than a hint of disdain.
“This one’s legit,” Lawrence said. Both guards handed back the IDs.
“Do you have an appointment?” Alphonse asked in a neutral tone that somehow managed to carry a threat of ejection if they didn’t.
“We’re working an active murder investigation,” Joanna said. “The NYPD doesn’t need an appointment.”
Alphonse stared at them for a moment, and then shrugged.
“Use the elevator at the far left. Hit P for penthouse. Someone will meet you there.”
“Thank you.” Joanna turned and headed for the bank of elevators, Tom keeping pace. After pressing the Up button, he watched Alphonse speak into a white telephone. Neither of the guards’ eyes left them as they waited for the elevator to descend.
When the elevator doors opened, a strong, almost spicy odor caused Tom to stifle a sneeze.
“Wooh. That is some strong cologne,” Joanna said, waving a hand in front of her nose.
The elevator was as futuristic as the lobby, with white walls and floor, and polished chrome for the control panel. Each button was black glass, with the number painted on it in gold. The ascent to the penthouse took less than a minute, and when the doors opened, a burly man dressed in identical fashion to the lobby guards waited for them.
“Please follow me.”
As with many penthouse apartments, the elevator opened into a cross between a short hallway and a large foyer rather than the actual apartment. Tom guessed there’d be living space on both sides, through one of the two sets of double doors on either side of the elevator. At the far end, where the guard led them, residents typically repurposed storage areas into gyms, offices, and, in extreme cases, an indoor pool or spa.
When the guard opened a smaller door, Tom saw he’d been right. Gordon sat behind a polished wood desk at the end of an expansive office. Thick carpet covered the floor, creating an almost museum-quality hush, and one wall had been replaced with floor-to-ceiling tinted windows that provided a view of Central Park. A computer and laptop occupied a portion of the desk. Behind Gordon were several cabinets, all closed. Tom assumed they contained televisions and a wet bar. Although for all he knew, there could be whips, chains, and other kinky paraphernalia.
Stop. You’ve been watching too many Shades of Gray movies.
“Officers. How can I help you today?” Gordon looked even paler than the last time they’d seen him, his face so pasty he appeared sickly.
“Sorry to bother you, but we had some follow-up questions regarding the deaths of Roger Collingsworth, Shaun Prescott, and Charles Oliver.”
“I was informed that the man responsible for them was himself murdered.”
“Yes.” Tom nodded. “These are just follow-up questions. Dotting the Is, crossing the Ts, that sort of thing, so we can complete our paperwork.”
“I see.” Gordon glanced past them, toward a different door than they’d entered through, as if expecting someone. “Well, I am happy to help.”
“You previously told me that you sent the deceased and some others a threatening letter regarding an investment opportunity.”
“I never threatened them with anything except losing a chance to make some money.”
“Right. But about a week before Roger Collingsworth was murdered, you placed a call to him, along with the other deceased and several men whose names match the list you gave me.” Tom read off the names.
“I did?” Gordon’s hands twitched and he moved them off the desk and onto his lap. “I mean, yes, I did.”
“May I ask the purpose of that call?”
“Er, it had to do with the, erm, same business proposal. That was when I first informed them about it.”
“And that would be…?”
“The purchase of some, er, artifacts. A good part of my business is buying and selling works of art, ancient relics, and such. I have the opportunity to obtain a rather large collection, but the asking price was too much for me alone. So I reached out to some others who I knew were also collectors, so they could advance me some of the money, which I would return after the auction or apply to anything they chose to bid on.”
“I guess your friends must have been pretty excited.”
“Oh?”
Tom pretended to check something in his notebook.
“Yes, according to our records, there were more than a dozen calls back and forth between the individuals you contacted. Odd, though.”
Before Gordon could ask why, Joanna spoke up.
“None of them called you back.”
Gordon’s eyes darted from Tom to Joanna and back.
“Well. I can’t say as to—”
“Were any of these antiquities from Egypt, by any chance?”
Joanna’s question caused Gordon to twitch.
“Er, I, um, couldn’t say. Possibly? Maybe? I’m sure there are items from all over the world. I don’t know what anyone might decide to—”
“Where did you say the auction is being held?” Tom interrupted.
Silence followed the question. Gordon’s face took on a greenish cast and beads of sweat popped up on his forehead.
“The, er, Egyptian Cultural Museum.”
Tom raised an eyebrow.
“Then, I guess it would be fair to say there will be some items from Egypt up for bid?”
Gordon swallowed hard and nodded.
“Are you by any chance acquainted with anyone who works at the museum?”
Gordon swallowed several times. He looked so ill Tom took a step back in case the man threw up.
“I, er, yes, I suppose so. I’m a member of the board.”
“Interesting.” Joanna’s eyebrows went up and Tom saw she was struggling not to smile.
“Okay. I think that’s all the questions we had. Thank you for your time.” Tom closed his notebook. “We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Gordon.” Joanna gave him a little wave. Neither of them spoke while the guard escorted them back to the elevator or during the ride down to the lobby. They’d both noticed the camera in the ceiling and assumed it had sound as well as video. Only when they got to Tom’s car did Joanna let out a laugh.
“Holy shit, did you see his face when you asked about the museum?”
Tom nodded.
“He was scared shitless. There’s definitely some kind of Egypt connection there. My guess is those artifacts are black market, like the ones Banks hinted about.”
“You should ask Stacy if she knows anything about this auction.”
“Good idea.” He rubbed his nose and sneezed. “I can still smell that cologne from the elevator.”
“It was pretty strong.”
“I keep thinking I’ve smelled it before.”
“Poor you.” Joanna checked her watch. “My lunch break is almost over. I need to get back.”
“All right. Talk to you later. Thanks.” Tom gave her a hug. “You were right. I wouldn’t have gotten up there without you.”
She gave him a kiss on the cheek and headed for her car. As he watched her leave, the memory of her lips erased all other thoughts.
From his vantage point in the doorway of an empty store across the street, Ahmes the Second watched the detectives leave Gordon’s apartment building. The call from the security guards had given him just enough time to slip out the servants’ entrance without being seen.
His visit with Gordon had not eased any of his worries. The fool had admitted to using the spell on Tom Reardon, not once, but twice. And both times it had failed. There was no explanation for that. He’d assured Ahmes he recited it correctly, and as much as it galled him to admit it, Ahmes believed him, since the other deaths had gone exactly as they should.
Which meant there had to be a different reason.
Possibilities whirled in Ahmes’s head, none of them to his liking. The Greer woman at the museum, with her talk of the ushabti. Had she discovered something in her research? A protective spell would explain the detective’s escapes. Or a magical amulet of some kind. Something similar to the invocation of protection Ahmes had cast for himself not long after he was revived in the museum last year. Originally it was to ensure his safety in a strange world, and later he’d maintained it because he feared Gordon, a weasel just like his great-grandsire, might try to double-cross him with a bullet to the back. Ahmes knew it was only greed and self-preservation keeping Gordon in line. He was not to be trusted. It showed in his voice, in his face.
And that was where the real danger lay.
The power to control an ushabti could be intoxicating. It was the reason only the most senior of the priests of Osiris knew the spells and had access to the Book of the Dead. Gordon could ruin their plans by getting too greedy. Or panicked.
What if Gordon decides to send the ushabti after me?
His protective magics only kept him safe from mortal threats. So the question became, who did he need to guard himself against? Greer and her detective friend? Henry Gordon? Both represented equal risks to the success of his plan.
Gordon promised another would die tonight. Let us see if he holds true to his word.
If he did, then it would only be another five days, a week at the most, and he could return to Abydos, restore the treasures to their rightful place within the temple, and claim his rewards in the afterlife.
An ancient proverb came to him.
“Vasil alqarib ’iilaa makan alhubut jzyyana ean tariq alsahb wjzyyana ean tariq tarkah.” The boatsman reacheth the landing partly by pulling, partly by letting go.
Ahmes nodded to himself. He would continue to do his part and trust Fate to handle the things he couldn’t control.
Only, as he headed to the corner to hail a cab, he couldn’t help thinking of another saying he’d heard as a young priest.
“La yakun eind rafiq sariq lialaa yaqtalik.”
Do not have a thief for a companion, lest he cause you to be killed.
Perhaps it was time to do research of his own and find a way to keep himself safe from the deadly hands of the ushabti Akil Ahmose.
The first thing Dan noticed when Liz Cho slid the body out of the cold storage locker was the smell.
“What is that?” he asked, as a faint mix of exotic spices wafted from the locker. Anywhere else, he might not have paid attention, but in the morgue it stood out from the usual background of cleaning agents and death.
“Oils of some kind,” the assistant ME said. “On the skin. We don’t know if it was post-mortem or not, but it’s on both arms.”
“It smells like a head shop.”
Cho nodded.
“Definitely a lot of the same ingredients as incense. We don’t have the trace report back yet, but I don’t need one. I can tell you exactly what’s in it. Clove, sandalwood, myrrh, and cinnamon, plus some traces of other exotic oils and spices.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it’s the seventh or eight instance we’ve seen. All homeless men or women, all within the last two weeks.”
A nervous tingle came to life between Dan’s shoulders. He pulled out the list of missing and dead persons he’d gotten from Chantal LaCroix.
“Any of the names match these?”
Cho took the list and nodded.
“Definitely. Probably others, but we don’t have IDs yet. And the cause of death for all of them appears to be the same, although we don’t know what it is yet.”
“How can that be?”
“See for yourself.” Cho pulled the sheet down, exposing the top half of the corpse.
A shriveled face stared up at Dan, its cheeks shrunken and its lips pulled back to reveal all its teeth. The flesh was grayish-brown and resembled tough, dried-out leather, although Dan had no intention of actually touching it to confirm pliability. The eyes had collapsed like two deflated balloons and the hair was so brittle that pieces of it had broken off just from the weight of the sheet. The rest of the body showed the same characteristics. Skin pulled so tight every bone showed, a sunken hollow below the ribs that reminded Dan of starvation victims. Cho removed the sheet completely, revealing withered genitals and legs desiccated to sticks. All four limbs were twisted and drawn up against the body, and the fingers and toes curled in.
“What in the actual hell?” Dan took a step away as another wave of incense billowed up.
“That’s what we want to know. Dr. Ling’s already sent out samples to the CDC and the FBI. Our first thought was some kind of disease, but the virology and immunology tests came back clean.”
“And they all look like this?”
“Every one. Yu has a theory, but right now he can’t prove it.”
Dan took out his phone and snapped a couple of pictures, then motioned for her to put the gruesome corpse away.
“At this point, I’ll listen to anything.”
“The body’s been sucked dry. Every bit of liquid removed from the cells. Nothing left but tissue, bone, and cartilage. We haven’t autopsied this one yet, but we’ve done the others. Internal organs show the same extreme desiccation. What we can’t determine is how it was done. There are no wounds of any kind. The only time I’ve ever seen anything like this is from South and Central America and the European Alps, when bodies are exposed to extremely arid conditions. They turn into mummies. But that takes months, sometimes years. And we know for a fact some of these people were alive less than a week or two ago.”
Mummies. The word bounced inside Dan’s head and dropped into his stomach like a stone.
“That didn’t look like any mummy I’ve ever seen,” he said, partly to reassure himself there was no connection to the ushabti killings.
“Actually, it does, you just don’t know it. This is what they look like under the bandages. Mummification can occur naturally or artificially. It’s simply the preservation of the body in a way that prevents decomposition. Under right conditions, such as a mix of dry heat or cold, the flesh loses all its moisture and hardens. Like making jerky. Or it can be a chemical change, like when bodies are trapped in peat bogs. That’s more like preservation. But those processes require exactly the right conditions, none of which include lying in an alley in Manhattan.”
