Ragman, page 9
“That’s great.” Tom paused, unsure of what to say next. Luckily, she came to his rescue.
“You said you needed help with something related to a case.”
“I do. I’m working on the Ragman murders as a special liaison to the police. Long story short, I got hired by Leslie Prescott to find out who killed her husband, and she pulled some strings.”
“Leslie Prescott? But wasn’t she one of the victims?”
He nodded. “Yep. Right after I took the job. Now I’m waist deep in it.”
“And you’re helping the cops?” Stacy’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait. I saw Dan interviewed on TV about that case. Are you working with him again?”
“Sort of. It’s complicated.” The conversation was veering into an area he’d hoped to avoid. Or even think about, considering Dan still hadn’t returned any messages.
“Wow. Well, good for you. So, what can I do?”
Glad to be able to change the subject from his old partner, he placed a picture of Shaun Prescott’s chest on her desk. To her credit, she didn’t flinch.
“This symbol was burned into the chest of three of the victims.” He tapped the circle with the five lines in it. “Chad Driscoll thinks it’s got something to do with voodoo or gangs. But we’ve got evidence that there might be some kind of Egyptian connection. I was wondering….”
“If I recognized it from Egyptian mythology.”
“Right.”
“You know, you could just do a reverse image search.”
“I tried. The results were all over the place, from ancient African languages to video game characters to emblems for a university in Egypt that has no connection to our victims. I’m hoping you can narrow it down for me and save me a few dozen hours of work.”
“Lucky me.” Stacy smiled to take the sting out of her words. “Wait here. I’ll go grab a book that might help.”
Tom watched as she left the office. She looked damn good in tight jeans and a plain black sweater, just the right amount of curves, and he couldn’t help flashing back to the last time he’d seen her undressed.
Joanna and Stacy in their bras and panties, standing next to each other. Light and dark, like two sides of the most beautiful coin in the world….
“Found it.”
He shook away the image of that night as she set an enormous book on her worktable. He caught the title before she opened it. Egyptian Symbology and Theosophical Practices.
“It does look familiar,” she murmured, flipping through the pages. “Something about…yes! It’s the symbol of Seba.”
Stacy spun the book around so he could see. Dozens of symbols and drawings covered the page, some of them familiar. The cross-shaped ankh, the Eye of Horus, a scarab beetle. Sitting among them was a simple five-lined pattern, like a star, only this one didn’t have the circle around it.
“What’s it mean?”
“According to this, it represents a star, and it’s patterned after the starfish. It can also signify star-gods, or a doorway.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. But if you give me some time, I might be able to find out more.”
“Thanks, that’d be great.”
She closed the book and an awkward silence followed. There were so many things Tom wanted to say. How sorry he was over what happened. How everything was his fault.
He couldn’t do it.
“Okay, so, um, I guess you’ll call me when you have something?”
“I will.” She seemed relieved that he didn’t try to get personal. Neither of them spoke while she walked him back to the main exit, where they had to wait for the guard to unlock the doors.
“Thanks again. It was great seeing you.” He leaned forward to hug her, and she stepped back, offering her hand instead. He gave it a quick shake and let go.
“Good night, Tom.”
“Yeah. Good night.” He left, not looking back, wondering if she was watching or she’d already put his visit out of her mind. His car was parked a block away, and after he got in, he sat behind the wheel for a moment.
First Dan Reese, then Joanna, and now Stacy. I wish I’d never taken this case.
As he pulled away from the curb, he shook his head.
He never could lie to himself.
“…Hear me, Ushabti Akil Ahmose
I call you to do my bidding
And rid the world of the one who stands in my way, he who is named Tom Reardon.
Send him to the Duat and reap the favor Sokar will bestow on you for your gracious offering of this unworthy Ka.”
Henry Gordon lit the paper on fire and watched it burn. The priest would no doubt be pissed that he’d used the spell for something other than what they’d agreed on, but Reardon had to go. He was getting too close to the truth, with his questions about the connections between the victims and the letters Henry had sent. It wouldn’t take much poking around to discover Gordon’s involvement with the Egyptian Cultural Museum and the Osiris exhibit he’d funded.
And from there, a money trail with more than a few holes in it.
He couldn’t afford to let that happen. All they needed was a week or two more. Then the deaths would stop, his money would be safe and secure offshore, and there’d be a dead Egyptian to take the fall for everything.
Just a few more days….
His hands shook as he lifted the spell sheet.
What if something goes wrong?
In theory, the idea had seemed simple enough. The instructions for the spell were clear. Take a bath, light a few candles. Stick his finger with a pin. Read the words. Piece of cake. The old man had done it three times; it couldn’t be that dangerous.
Except he planned on changing something.
What would that mean for the spell? There were no warnings in the instructions, nothing saying “Do not try this at home!” It just said to fill in the name of the intended target in the blank spot, read the spell, and then burn it. And to always read the spell after night has fallen, never in the daylight.
Definitely simple. Except maybe, too simple? A death spell kind of implied dire consequences just by its very existence. Say the words wrong, what would happen? He’d read the papers, the descriptions of the deaths. Those fuckers had been torn apart by something, the same something he was about to contact. He sure as shit didn’t want to end up like that. And the instructions didn’t say a thing about what happened after he said the spell. Did the ushabti thingy appear before him? When you called on a demon, weren’t you supposed to stand inside a pentagram, or a circle of salt, for protection? Did he have to give it orders? Or was just saying the person’s name all it needed?
Three times. And nothing bad has happened to him.
That had a calming effect. If the old bastard hadn’t gotten himself killed, it had to be safe. And the instructions probably said to just use one name because whoever wrote the spell never thought ahead. Save time, save money. Something his Economics teacher liked to say. Why keep repeating a process when you didn’t have to? Streamline workflows, maximize efficiency.
“Fuck it.”
He took a deep breath and started reading the words he’d spent all afternoon carefully rewriting.
“Hear me now, Ushabti Akil Ahmose
Hear me from the depths of the Underworld
The time has come for you to leave your chains behind and rise again
Hear me, Ushabti Akil Ahmose
I have need of your service
Hear me, Ushabti Akil Ahmose
I call you to do my bidding
And rid the world of any who stand in my way or mean me harm, when I speak their names to you
Send them to the Duat and reap the favor Sokar will bestow on you for your gracious offering of this unworthy Ka.”
He dropped the burning spell to the tile floor of the bathroom and watched it burn. When five minutes passed, then ten, and nothing happened, he let out a sigh of relief and headed to the kitchen. Time to grab a beer and test out the spell.
Tonight, someone would die.
And he knew exactly who it would be.
The sonofabitch who’d ratted him out to security.
“Dennis Benton must die.”
With a smile, Peter Gordon chugged his beer and prepared to wait.
“Tom Reardon.”
Tom instinctively reached for his gun at the sound of his name being spoken in the dusty confines of the parking garage. The guttural whisper held a distinct sense of menace that made the hairs on his neck stand up.
He turned and barely managed to duck away as massive arms reached for him. His attacker stood seven feet tall with a football player’s build. Cloth wrappings covered it completely except for the eyes and mouth, which were black holes that somehow burned with an evil, opalescent hue.
A mummy! Tom’s heart raced as the empty sockets followed his movements. In that instant, everything about the case became clear. The evidence, the mutilation of the bodies, the impossible video footage. They’d been searching for human criminals while the truth lay in the supernatural realm.
“Tom Reardon.” Its voice was gravel and sand, bass notes and whispers. Dread gripped Tom with icy fingers, filled him with a fear worse than anything he’d ever experienced while on the job. The monster came at him again and he tried to dodge but its hand caught him across the shoulder and sent him flying. His gun landed several feet away. He rolled sideways as a heavy foot slammed the cement next to his head. He snatched up his pistol and from his back put three rounds into the barrel-sized chest.
The mummy never slowed.
Iron-hard fingers gripped his arms with bruising force and lifted him up. He shouted for help, imagining the creature tearing his limbs away, like the other victims. He squeezed the trigger twice more and the pressure on his biceps increased. All feeling left his arms and the gun fell from his numb fingers.
The mummy tossed him through the air as if he weighed nothing. He hit the side of a parked car and his head smacked the cement. The shrill yowl of the car’s alarm echoed through the garage and exploding stars filled his vision. When they cleared, the mummy stood over him, one arm reaching down, fingers spread wide. Tom tried to move but his body refused to obey.
Then the mummy paused.
It looked up as if it heard something, and then exploded into a mass of gray ribbons. The cloth strips flew around in a circle before disappearing, leaving only a few scraps that slowly settled to the ground.
Sucking in air, Tom tried to stand but his legs buckled. The garage spun crazily and grew darker. The alternating wail and screech of the alarm faded into the distance.
Just like his attacker, everything disappeared.
Chapter Ten
The jangle of a cell phone going off jolted Dan from his first sound sleep in days, thanks to a glass of wine and a Xanax with dinner. He fumbled on the nightstand for his work phone, which showed Chad Driscoll’s name.
“Reese. What is it?”
“You might wanna get your lazy butt over to twenty-five seventy-two Steinway Avenue in Astoria. Looks like someone got our guy before we did.”
“What?” Dan jumped out of bed. “They caught him?”
“Sort of. Sonofabitch is dead. Wait ’til you see it. You’ll love this.”
Driscoll hung up. Dan looked at the clock. Two-fifteen. How had Driscoll learned about the murder and gotten there and Dan hadn’t even gotten a call?
“Who was that?” Joanna rolled over as Dan grabbed his pants.
“Driscoll. He said they found him. The Ragman. And he’s dead.”
“Where?”
“Fucking Queens. I swear, if this is his idea of a joke, I’ll kill him.” Except they both knew Driscoll wasn’t the joking type.
Why didn’t anyone call me?
That bugged him more than anything.
“I’ll call you later,” he said, giving her a quick kiss.
“What about Tom?”
He was glad she couldn’t see his face in the dark.
“If this closes the case, then he’s not part of it anymore and he can go back to whatever rock he’s been living under. I just want our lives to go back to normal again.”
He was out the door before she could respond.
* * *
The crime scene turned out to be an apartment over a hookah bar in the section of Astoria known as Little Egypt.
“Neighbors didn’t hear a thing,” a uniformed officer said when Dan reached the top of the stairs. His name tag read ‘Brian Matthews’. “Nine-one-one got an anonymous call for Detective Driscoll saying the Ragman was here. Around the same time, the guy in the apartment under this one noticed a red liquid running down the water pipe and came up to say something. The door was ajar so he walked in. Found the body and called it in. That’s him.” Matthews pointed to a man sitting on a threadbare couch, his eyes glazed with shock and his face pale underneath a long, thick beard and mustache. His loose-fitting white robe and matching knit hat identified him as Muslim. A uniformed officer was taking his statement.
“Where’s the vic?” Dan asked.
Matthews handed him a pair of paper booties.
“Bathroom. It’s a doozy.”
Dan slipped on the shoe coverings and a pair of latex gloves and made his way to the bathroom, where a CSU was busy taking pictures. He peered over the woman’s shoulder.
The body lay on cracked, mildewed tile that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in decades. Dan’s first impression was of an elderly man. Gaunt, the skin so tight and thin he could count the bones. Brittle, lifeless hair. A mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Eyes bulging in terror. Both arms were broken at the elbows and bent away from the body, and the legs stuck out sideways at the knees. A huge gash ran across his throat, exposing the blood vessels and esophagus. Just above the navel, someone had carved three crossed lines, creating what looked like a giant asterisk. Blood covered the floor. Between the tub and toilet, an insulated pipe ran up and down through all the levels of the building. Dan assumed that was where the blood had leaked into the other apartment.
“We got an ID on him?” Dan asked.
“Bahaman Ibrahaim,” answered one of the techs. “Age thirty-two. Employment status unknown. Lives here alone.”
“Nice of you to stop by, Pieces.” Driscoll’s voice caused an acid surge in Dan’s already sour stomach.
“I could’ve been here a lot sooner if someone had called me. How do we know this is our guy?” Dan knew something was going on from Driscoll’s shit-eating grin, but he forced himself to focus on the case for now. Time enough later to find out why he’d been excluded.
“Bedroom. See for yourself.”
Driscoll led the way to an adjoining room, where dozens of yellow crime scene markers decorated the floor and furniture. Dan paused in the doorway to take it all in. A single bed, more of a cot really, with rumpled sheets. Packets of heroin and bills of various denominations were scattered on the floor around an overturned snack tray. To Dan’s practiced eye, it had all the hallmarks of a deal gone bad. The killer knocked the dealer out in the bedroom, dragged him into the bathroom, and worked him over before killing him.
Except the rest of the scene didn’t add up.
On the floor was a portable hibachi, the kind used by sports fans for tailgating. Next to it were two metal rods, one bent at the base to make an L-shape, the other crudely formed into a circle at one end. A cardboard box sat against the wall, overflowing with strips of yellowish-gray cloth. Nearby was a saw with a rectangular blade, the jagged teeth coated in brick-colored flakes Dan knew would come back as blood.
“Looks like I was right,” Driscoll said. “Voodoo. Well, Egyptian voodoo. That’s your mummy killer.”
When Dan just looked at him, he pointed at the box.
“The mummy. Stolen from a museum is my best guess.”
“You mean…?”
“Those ain’t just rags, them’s pieces, Pieces.” Driscoll laughed at his own wordplay. “All broken up and shoved in there. The perp must’ve brought a few strips to each crime scene and left ’em there as a warning. Or ’cause he was nuts. Or both.”
“This doesn’t make sense.” Dan glanced around again. He’d only taken a quick look at the body, but the dead man didn’t seem nearly large enough to take out armed guards and dismember people.
“From what we can tell, some Egyptian gang decided to extort a bunch of billionaires. They sent out threatening letters. That scumbag out there was supposed to scare them with mumbo jumbo, but instead he went all psycho and killed them. Then his buddies offed him because of it. They’re probably halfway back to the desert by now.”
Dan shook his head.
“We know Henry Gordon sent the letters. Why would he be working with an Egyptian gang? And how did some low-life heroin dealer not only manage to remove the victims’ heads and limbs, but sneak in and out of all the crime scenes with a grill?”
Driscoll shrugged. “Who knows? Could be drug smuggling, arms dealing, anything. Doesn’t really matter anymore. The guy’s dead, case closed except of a shitload of paperwork, which means mucho overtime. We’ll look into Gordon, but Queens takes over from here. You can thank your fuck buddy, Reardon. The note he got from Elton Banks matched the one on this guy’s computer.”
“Elton Banks? A note? When was this?” Dan felt like he’d been tossed into a whirlpool, with bits of information flying past him too fast to grab.
“Yesterday. He reported it to CSU. The other letter. You mean, he left you out of the loop, too?” Driscoll laughed again, this time with an edge of cruelty that told Dan exactly who was responsible for him not getting called to the scene earlier. But Tom? Why would he—
Shit.
Dan pulled out his phone. His personal one. He’d turned it off the previous day after blowing up at Tom because he needed a break. Then he and Joanna had their appointment with Dr. Fleck and after that they’d gone to dinner and he hadn’t turned the phone back on because he didn’t want them getting interrupted….
