He turned to her and replied, “It’s all right. Really.”

  She came in and leaned against the end of the worktable. “I wish I could do something to help.”

  Neuland nodded toward a collection of glassware and said, “You could hand me that green jar.”

  Picking it up, Tilda said, “This?”

  “That’s it. Pour ten milliliters into that flask.”

  When she’d done it, she handed it to him.

  “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?” said Tilda.

  Neuland handed her a set of heavy rubber gloves. “Put these on. This next part is tricky and I could use another set of hands. Ford is a complete clod in the lab.”

  After she slipped on the gloves, Neuland handed her a different flask and said, “Now put this on that burner and heat it to exactly one-hundred-and-sixty-five degrees.”

  “Got it. Can I confess something?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was afraid of you when we met.”

  Neuland smiled. “That’s all right. I was afraid of you too.”

  “Really?” said Tilda checking the temperature on her flask.

  “It’s true. I don’t generally get along with the rich, especially old money. I didn’t trust you. I was ready to fuck off and abandon you and the old man. But you proved me wrong.”

  “I’m really glad.”

  “Hand me that pipette, please.”

  She held up a thin glass cylinder. “This?”

  “Perfect,” he said and took it from her.

  “I’ll learn the names soon.”

  “I know you will.”

  They worked together into the night.

  5

  Tilda spent a good part of the afternoon alone on the gun range practicing with the .45. Unlike the 9mm, she had a handful of good shots, but just as many were off-center. Sighing, she left the gun downstairs and went upstairs to have lunch.

  Ford and Neuland were already at the table—Ford on his laptop eating a sandwich, and Neuland with a bottle of goofer juice and a book. Both looked up when she came in.

  “How’s it going down there?” said Neuland.

  Pouring herself some coffee, Tilda said, “I’m still pulling to the left. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “The Sig takes a while getting used to. We can work on your stance too,” Ford replied.

  “Thanks. I want to get better. At everything.”

  “You’re doing great,” said Neuland. “Tonight will be fun. We’re going to break into a crime scene and have a look around.”

  “The Skinner’s warehouse?”

  “Exactly. We might as well get started on this ridiculous job.”

  Ford said, “We’re leaving around two a.m., which should put us there around three. No one is up at three, especially not down at Stony Point.”

  Tilda set down her coffee cup. “But what if you’re wrong and someone sees us?”

  “No one will see us.”

  “But what if they do?”

  Neuland took something from his pocket and slid it across the table to her.

  It was a square wrapped in leather. When Tilda picked it up it opened like a billfold and she found an NYPD detective badge with her name on the ID card.

  “Cool,” she said. “A promotion already.”

  Ford smiled at her. “If any nosy types wander by, just flash that and tell them to fuck off.”

  Tilda stared at her badge. “Since coming here I sometimes feel like Alice in Wonderland,” she said.

  “How’s that?” Neuland said.

  She held up the badge. “I’m a detective now,” Tilda said. “It’s like Alice said: ‘Sometimes I believe in as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’”

  Ford held up a Coke can. “Cheers to Alice.”

  Tilda raised her coffee and Neuland his goofer juice. They all drank together.

  * * *

  At two, they took the subway up to a garage on Fifty-Sixth Street and picked up Ford’s black 1972 Pontiac GTO. After getting the keys from the attendant, they sped north on Harlem River Drive to a bridge that took them into the Bronx. After that, they were soon at Stony Point, a patch of land across the East River from Rikers Island.

  Finding a spot swaddled in shadows from a warehouse, Ford parked the GTO and they all got out. Tilda followed the men around to the trunk, which was packed with guns and strange equipment she’d never seen before. Neuland handed her an elaborate set of goggles.

  “What are these?” she said.

  “Night vision. You’ll be able to see everything without giving off any light.”

  “Nice. And what’s that you’re putting on?” It looked similar to her goggles, but Neuland’s rig was much more elaborate.

  He said, “A pneumascope. It’s like your night vision, but it also highlights signs of organic life.”

  “And sometimes other stuff,” added Ford. “Ready?”

  Tilda nodded and put on her goggles. The world suddenly turned very bright and entirely green.

  “Let’s head out.”

  The wreckage of the warehouse wasn’t much to look at, just a scorched patch of land piled with collapsed sheet metal walls and burnt wooden beams. The only barrier to the site was some tattered yellow police tape on sawhorses surrounding the place. By the tape’s battered condition, it was clear that no one had visited in some time. Ford tore it away and they headed out onto the site.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” asked Tilda.

  “That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Neuland replied. “We’re not sure. Just keep your eyes open for anything interesting. Preferably something that looks out of place.”

  “Won’t the police and fire department and have found everything?”

  Ford said, “I trust the fire department more than the cops, but everybody misses things. It’s our job to find them.”

  Tilda picked up a length of pipe and pushed away piles of jagged metal, checking under and around the debris. After a few minutes, she felt a little silly. Through the goggles everything looked pretty much the same. Burned and melted trash. But she kept going even when all she found were dead rat carcasses.

  Off to her left, she heard Neuland say, “This is interesting.”

  She and Ford crowded around him as he held up a broken bone.

  “It’s part of a clavicle,” Neuland said. “The scope reads that it’s male.”

  “Anything else?” said Ford.

  “Nothing yet, but I’ll take it back to the lab to examine it.”

  As they split up again Tilda said, “If the Skinner lost this place, it means he’s looking for a new one.”

  “That tracks,” said Ford.

  “He must have had the place for a long time,” said Neuland. “A warehouse this size won’t be easy to replace these days.”

  “Thank god for gentrification,” mumbled Ford.

  “If the place burned down weeks ago, he might be a bit desperate by now,” said Tilda.

  “That would be my guess,” Neuland said.

  “Or it could be something else.”

  The men stopped what they were doing and looked at her.

  “What else could it be, T?”

  She shrugged. “I was thinking that maybe since he’s back on the street maybe, you know, he likes it. Maybe he got bored with being so careful for so long.”

  “Shit,” said Ford. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Neuland said. “But if you’re right, it’s going to make him even harder to track down.”

  “He’ll still need someplace to lay low,” Ford said.

  “Yeah,” said Tilda. “A new lair in case running around gets too dangerous.”

  “Neuland, are you getting any damn thing on the pneumascope?”

  “Mostly insects and rats,” he said, adjusting the scope’s controls. “I’m going to try a reconstruction with the remains of the building and the clavicle.”

  Ford pulled Tilda back a few yards.

  “What’s he doing?” whispered Tilda.

  “Sometimes the pneumascope can put the scene back together with just bits and pieces of what’s there.”

  “Like a little time machine?”

  Ford considered it for a moment. “Yeah. I guess that’s a good way to look at it.”

  Neuland crouched in the debris for a while, then stood and turned three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.

  “Holy hell,” he said. “Holy hell.”

  Tilda and Ford went back to him.

  “Did you find anything?” said Tilda.

  Neuland handed her the scope and said, “Look for yourself.”

  She removed her night vision goggles and put on the pneumascope. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the staticky image, then she breathed out a quiet, “Wow.”

  “What did you see?” said Ford.

  “The warehouse. It’s full of bodies hanging from the ceiling and rafters. Oh god. Some of them are moving. They’re still alive. It’s like some horrible butcher shop.”

  She tore off the pneumascope and handed it to Ford, who put it on.

  “Well goddamn,” he said. “The Skinner was having a grand old time, wasn’t he?”

  “I’d say so,” replied Neuland. He threw the clavicle into the dirt. “I don’t think we’ll be needing that anymore. We’re through here.”

  Tilda watched it land and said, “Wait. There’s something over there. Under that beam.”

  They went to where she pointed. Tilda dug into the wreckage a few inches.

  “Got it!” she said, holding up a water-damaged red book. She opened it as Ford and Neuland looked over her shoulders.

  “Can you read it?” said Neuland.

  “I think—” she said. “It’s pretty burned and waterlogged. I think… Yes. It’s something in French.”

  “Well, fuck us,” said Ford. “Who the hell do we know that we can trust and speaks French?”

  “I do,” said Tilda brightly. “Languages are one of my hobbies. I had a lot of time on my hands back with grandfather.”

  “You think you can translate it?” said Neuland.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “It might tell us who the Skinner is and why he does what he does.”

  Ford squeezed Tilda’s shoulder. “Nice job. Come on. Let’s get out of here before the rats realize they have us outnumbered.”

  Ford drove them back to Manhattan and they drank through the night to their good fortune.

  6

  The man lay on his belly in the grass fifty yards from them.

  He watched them dig in the ruins of the burned-out warehouse through the telescopic sight on his rifle. To him, they looked like vermin scrabbling through the debris for a meal. Grub eaters. Foul things hunting rotten meat. Or worse, parasites. Yes. He liked that image better. Simple parasites would make everything easier. They were dumb and always hungry.

  He watched the three of them through the scope until they finished their work and walked away, eventually vanishing from sight. When they were gone, he disassembled his rifle and headed out. The sun would be up in a few hours and there were arrangements to be made.

  7

  They woke up late to the sound of someone leaning on the Bunker’s front door buzzer.

  Gathering around the monitor screen they saw a smiling, heavyset man who scanned the street around him.

  “Who’s that?” said Tilda.

  “Cop,” said Ford.

  Neuland nodded. “Definitely a cop.”

  Tilda crossed her arms. “Do you think he’s here about last night?”

  “I doubt it. We would have seen if there were cameras.”

  She looked at the screen again. “Maybe Jourgensen and Goss sent him to help us?”

  “I doubt it,” said Ford. “That’s the face of a guy who wants to shit on our floor and expects us to smile about it.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Let the fucker in and play it cool. You did great yesterday, T. You can handle this guy.”

  “You’re right. Let the fucker in.”

  “Here we go.”

  Neuland buzzed in the smiling man. He wore a dark Burberry coat and scarf and didn’t introduce himself but took his time looking around the room. “Wow. I remember when this was a regular precinct station. I’ve never seen it so homey.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, officer,” said Neuland.

  “Detective, actually,” said the man, his grin unfaltering. “Fessenden. It’s great to meet you all.”

  Tilda said, “It’s good to meet you too, detective. Would you like some coffee? I was about to put some on.”

  He gestured toward her. “So nice. You don’t always meet as nice as her in New York these days.”

  Ford stepped forward, “Yeah. She’s the bee’s knees. What is it you want, Detective Fessenden?”

  Fessenden looked at Neuland. “You’re the dead one, right? A revenant? Is that the right word?”

  “That’s right,” Neuland replied cautiously.

  Brightening, Fessenden said, “Wow. I’ve heard about people like you, but I’ve never actually met one before. Not that I know of, of course.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “I’m glad you find my existence so entertaining.”

  “Oh, I do. All of you. Wildly entertaining. Meeting people like you is what keeps my job interesting.”

  “That’s terrific, detective,” Ford said. “But you still haven’t said why you’re here.”

  Fessenden walked to a chair where the .45 was hanging from the back in a holster. He took the gun out and sighted across the room.

  “A Sig Sauer. You’ve got to love ’em, right? I have one myself.” He opened his coat to reveal a shoulder holster. “Of course, it’s a 9mm. They won’t let us carry .45s on the street. Bullet might go through a bad guy and hit a poor bystander. Can’t have that, right? Too many grieving widows. Too many lawsuits.” Again, he chuckled at his joke.

  The three others remained silent as Fessenden moved the gun around the room. Finally, he swung it around to point it at Neuland.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t do that,” he said evenly.

  Fessenden hesitated a moment before dropping the gun to his side, the smile never leaving his lips. He went to the chair and holstered the .45 before speaking.

  “Sorry,” said the detective. “I didn’t mean to be rude, but that Sig is just so much fun.”

  Tilda cleared her throat and said, “Are we under arrest?”

  Fessenden laughed and waved off the comment. “Arrest? Oh, hell no. It’s nothing like that.”

  “Then why are you here?” said Ford.

  Chuckling one more time, Fessenden said, “I thought you would have guessed by now. I want you to kill someone for me.”

  The three remained quiet for a moment. Then Neuland said, “Why us?”

  “Do you mean why I want you to do it or why I don’t do it myself?”

  “Personally, I’d like to hear both,” said Ford.

  Fessenden took a step toward him. “All right. I got your names from the friend of a friend. He spoke highly of your services. And, as to why I don’t kill this particular person myself, I can’t. I’m an officer of the law and the individual I want killed has a high profile in this town.”

  “Who’s that?” said Tilda.

  “You ever hear of Andy Vega?”

  Ford blinked once. “The art collector guy?”

  “Yeah. The art collector guy,” said Fessenden lightly. “I want you to kill him for me.”

  Neuland said, “Why would you want us to kill some crazy rich kid?”

  Fessenden held up a finger. “That would be telling. This is a hush-hush kind of situation.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t work that way. You can’t buy us to just snuff out any civilian you find annoying.”

  Raising his eyebrows slightly, Fessenden said, “Is this some kind of hitman code of honor thing?”

  “You could call it that,” said Ford. “Or a simple ‘don’t be an asshole’ code.”

  “Then you’re turning me down?”

  “I’m afraid we have to,” said Tilda.

  Fessenden pointed to her again. “She’s so polite. I love her.”

  “Polite or not, we’re turning you down,” said Neuland.

  “Even for a hundred thousand dollars?”

  Ford frowned momentarily. “Where does a cop get that kind of walking-around money?”

  “Detective,” said Fessenden.

  “Sorry. Where the fuck does a detective get that kind of walking-around money?”

  “What did I just say about this being hush-hush? I’m not at liberty to tell you my sources or my reasons. What I can tell you is that I have one hundred thousand dollars with your names on it. Come on, guys. We’re all professionals here. Work with me.”

  Tilda said, “I’m afraid we’re already working on another job.”

  Fessenden stopped smiling and pointed to each of them individually before saying, “So, you’re confessing to a New York City police detective that you’re engaged in a conspiracy to murder someone?”

  Neuland shook his head. “No. You misunderstood her.”

  “Yeah,” said Ford. “We’re just redecorating. It’s very time consuming.”

  “I can imagine. A nice place like this,” said Fessenden looking around. “But you can’t find just a few minutes between looking at swatches to blow Mr. Andy Vega’s head off for me? Pretty please?”

  “The hundred thousand dollars you mentioned, you have that in cash?” said Neuland.

  “You know it. Good American green.”

  “I tell you what,” said Ford. “Let us look into your little venture. Check Vega out. See where he goes. Who he spends time with. Then maybe—”

  “You’ll try to fit me into your busy schedule?”

  “We don’t like to go into these things unprepared,” Tilda said.

  “Sure, sure. That makes sense,” said Fessenden. “You work on your feng shui and then look into my offer when you get time. I’ll be back soon and we’ll finalize things then.”

  “That sounds fine,” Neuland said.

  Tilda went to the button that opened the front door. “Thank you for stopping by.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Fessenden. He looked at the three of them. “Such nice people. Talk soon.”

 

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