Delta Ghost (18 page)

The woman’s eyes flared for a second. Then she regained her coiffed composure.

“Which child?” she asked.

Venn winced inwardly.

Harmony said, “The older one.” She gave a small sigh. “Drugs. Probably somebody else’s fault, but...” She shrugged in a
you-know-how-it-is
gesture.

The woman touched her fingertips to her chin. Venn thought that in most other people it would be the equivalent of breaking down in worry.

He said, gruffly but kindly: “We need to locate Mr Franciscus as a matter of urgency. You said you didn’t know where he was this morning. But where do you think he might be? Do you have any idea?”

The woman pressed her hands together, tapping the index fingers against one another. She said: “He called me an hour ago, and asked me to phone some people he knows within your police department. He wanted to find out where a certain person was being held in custody, because he wished to offer his legal services to this individual. Mr Franciscus does a fair amount of pro bono work, you see, and –”

Venn felt the answer hit him before he’d finished asking. “Who was this person, Ms Archer?”

She drew herself up, her manner assured, as if she was now on clear, unambiguous ground. “I’m not permitted to divulge such information, Detective.”

“Okay.” He held up his hands in a backing-off gesture. “But can you tell us if you found out where this suspect was being detained?”

“We really, really need to speak to Mr Franciscus, right now,” Harmony murmured.

The woman looked at each of them in turn. Then, her face set, she turned to her computer monitor.

“The client is in custody at the Thurgood Marshall County Courthouse in Foley Square.”

Venn said, “Thank you, Ms Archer. You’ve been a great help. Mr Franciscus will appreciate it, I’m sure.”

On the stairs down, Venn said to Harmony, “How did you know Franciscus had kids?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “Lucky guess.”

Out on the street, Venn found the number of the courthouse. After being passed along from one person to another, he was put through to a cop who could help him.

“I’m one of the detectives who took down a man named Ramon Espinoza yesterday,” Venn said to the cop. “I’m trying to locate him. Is he being held there?”

The cop said: “Lieutenant, you got psychic powers or something?”

“What do you mean?”

The cop sounded stressed. “We got a major problem here. Espinoza killed himself in his cell a half hour ago.”

“What?”

“Opened up his wrists with a razor. God knows where he’d kept it hidden. Just sat there and bled out. They got to him pretty quickly, but it was too late. DOA.”

“Ah,
damn
.”

“You can say that again,” said the cop. “Doesn’t look good for us at all.”

Venn thought quickly. “Did he have any visitors before he did it? Friends, family?”

“No. Just his lawyer.”

“The public defender.”

“No, she handed the case over to some other guy. Man named, uh... Franciscus.”

Venn felt a tightness in his gut.

“Anything else, Lieutenant? We’re kind of busy –”

“No. Thanks.”

Harmony had been leaning in, trying to catch the conversation. Venn ran a hand over his scalp, stared at her.

He said, “Espinoza’s dead. Cut himself open, shortly after his new lawyer paid him a visit. Guess who the new lawyer was.”

“Shit,” said Harmony. Then her eyes widened. “An apparent suicide...”

“Yeah. Like O’Dell’s. And Franciscus was with him just before he did it, too.”

They got into the Mustang. Harmony’s brow was furrowed.

“It doesn’t add up. Franciscus kills O’Dell. Kills this gang guy. But he seemed to want to find out who killed Kruger, which suggests he wasn’t involved in that shooting. How does it all connect?”

“I don’t know,” said Venn. “But this shifts everything up a gear. Franciscus’ secretary will call him to let him know about our visit. He’ll know we’re on to him. Whatever he’s doing, he’ll need to move fast.”

“The problem is, we don’t know what he’s doing,” Harmony said.

“Yeah. But we better find out soon.”

W
hen the fat copper, Sickert, finally said, “You can come out now, kid,” Clune lifted the blanket off his head and immediately wished he hadn’t.

The stink of the car assailed his nostrils once more, as it had done when he’d first climbed in. It was a heady, rancid brew of stale cigarette smoke and stale armpit sweat and fried fast-food.

He fought back the urge to gag, and sat up cautiously, flinching as he anticipated the sots to come smashing through the car window. Sickert had already climbed out and was holding the rear door open.

They were in an unfamiliar part of the city. Clune peered around at the slightly down-at-heel streets, the milling crowds. Sickert had parked up on the curb.

“Where are we?” said Clune.

“Harlem,” said Sickert. “My old stamping ground.”

He led Clune toward an apartment block which looked if not derelict, then as if it was in serious need of structural repair. They went through the dingy lobby with its cracked linoleum floor and reached the elevator.

It wasn’t working.

“Just my goddamn luck,” muttered Sickert, and he headed for the stairs, Clune in tow. By the time they reached the third floor, the cop was wheezing so heavily Clune wondered if he was about to keel over with a heart attack.

Sickert fished some keys from his trouser pocket and opened the door to one of the apartments. Inside, the rooms were sparsely furnished but clean.

“Here we are,” said Sickert, spreading his arms as if he was a real estate agent showing off a top-range condo on the Malibu beachfront. “Home sweet home. For the time being, anyhow.”

Clune gazed round. Well, he’d lived in worse digs than this before.
Far
worse. Places a cockroach would be horrified to go near.

“There’s nobody else here?”

“Just you and me, kid,” said Sickert. “Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna take advantage of you.”

“It’s not that,” said Clune, shuddering inwardly at the image that came to mind. “It’s just... well...” He glanced at Sickert’s gross body, his sweaty face.

Sickert laughed. “I get it. You don’t rate your chances of survival all that high with a fat slob like me as your bodyguard.” He reached inside his jacket. “Let me show you something, son.”

Clune watched as Sickert withdrew the biggest handgun he’d ever seen. It kept on coming and coming as he pulled it from his jacket, a dull ugly beast which Clune, who knew next to nothing about firearms, nonetheless recognized as a revolver.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” said Sickert, with something like love in his tone. “Smith & Wesson Model 29. Chambered for .44 Magnum cartridges.” He lapsed into a grotesque Clint Eastwood parody, muttering through clenched teeth: “One of these will blow your head clean off.”

Clune flinched. For the first time he wished he was back with Venn and Harmony. At least they were only scary. This bloke was a psycho.

“Seriously, kid, it’s fascinating how this works,” said Sickert. “The temporary cavity produced by a bullet of this power is massively disruptive to the surrounding tissues. So if you take one of these in the chest or belly, even if by some miracle none of your major organs gets hit, you still get turned into a bag of soup. Neat, huh?”

Sometimes, when Clune was a small boy, he used to hold his breath as long as he could, until he came close to passing out. It usually got his mum’s attention, and took attention away from his baby brother, which was the whole point. Now, Clune felt the same waves of giddiness ripple through his head, and he lurched toward the nearest threadbare recliner and dropped into it.

Sickert watched him, then put the gun away inside its holster.

“Uh... I guess you don’t need to hear all of that right now.”

When Clune felt steadier, he said, “So what happens now?”

“We wait,” said Sickert, lowering his bulk onto a protesting couch. “Till Lieutenant Venn says otherwise.” He leaned forward, peering at Clune with interest. “Anyways. You were saying earlier about Jack the Ripper. How my namesake might have been him. You from that part of London? Whitechapel?”

“No,” said Clune. “I’m from Manchester.”

“Ah. Pity. Whatever,” said Sickert. Then he brightened. “Manchester? Isn’t that where the serial killer doctor was? Harold Shipley or something?”

“Harold Shipman,” said Clune.

“That’s the one. He killed like
two hundred
of his patients, didn’t he? Awesome.” Sickert shifted his chubby behind on the couch. “Tell me about him.”

*

S
alazar believed in luck. He also believed that the more faith you had in God, the more good luck He would send your way.

When the phone call came, Salazar closed his eyes in silent thanks, raised the crucifix that hung round his neck to his lips.

Two of his men had been working the streets in Harlem when they’d noticed a small group of young African-American people in animated conversation on a street corner. Salazar’s men had wandered nearer. At the center of the group, a youth was holding a piece of paper.

“It was him, man. I’m telling you.”

Another guy said, “So what?”

A third person, a girl, chimed in: “So, there’s maybe, like, a reward.”

The second guy snorted. “Bullshit. Where do you see anything about a reward?”

They peered at the paper again. Salazar’s guys sidled round the perimeter of the group so they could look over the shoulder of the guy holding it.

It was one of the flyers the police had posted around the city, with the picture of the British kid, Clune.

The guy with the flyer said, “Maybe. Maybe the cops’ll pay us. And even if they don’t... well, this dude’s missing. We oughta report it, irregardless.”

“Why?” said somebody else. “You said the guy was walking along of his own free will. He wasn’t hurt, wasn’t a prisoner. Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. In which case, leave him be.”

“Yeah,” piped up another boy. “We don’t owe the cops nothin’. I say forget about it.”

Salazar’s men looked at one another. One of them gave a small cough.

The youths looked round. “Help you gentlemen?” one of them said, hostility in his tone.

Salazar’s man beckoned to the kid with the flyer. “You. We want to talk to you.” Like a conjuror, he flashed a roll of greenbacks, then made them disappear.

The kid hesitated. Then he stepped toward them. The rest of the group started to move.

Salazar’s man shook his head. “Only him.”

Warily, the boy allowed them to lead him away from the group and round a corner, keeping his distance. Out of sight and earshot of his cronies, Salazar’s man produced the roll of cash again.

“Tell us where you saw this guy, and the money’s yours.”

“You guys cops?” said the boy nervously.

“Sure we are.”

The boy looked unconvinced, but shrugged. “Two blocks from here, down  on 127. He got out of a car with another man, a fat guy with a beard. They went into an apartment block.”

“You’re certain it was him?” said Salazar’s man.

“Positive.”

“Take us there.”

*

S
alazar said into the phone, “You’re outside the apartment block now?”

“Yes,” said his man.

“Okay. Keep watch. I’ll send support immediately.”

With a fist of triumph punching up through his gut, Salazar began to make phone calls.

S
ickert was regaling Clune with a lurid account of Jeffrey Dahmer and his murderous career when Clune felt his eyelids begin to droop.

It wasn’t that he was bored, exactly. But the stress of the past few days, of the past weeks, was suddenly catching up on him, and his body and mind were trying to retreat into slumber.

The dreams began crowding in, even as he heard Sickert’s voice droning on in the background. Dreams in which he was caught in an open plain, a stretch of desert, with a thousand gunmen at his back, their weapons raised and aimed and only sadism causing them to hold back from opening fire and ending it all. There’d be the crash of noise, a moment of immense, incredible pain, and then – darkness and silence.

Silence.

Clune became aware that Sickert had stopped talking.

He opened his eyes.

The cop had drawn his revolver and risen from his seat, one hand held out toward Clune for silence, his head still and his eyes roving in the manner of someone who was listening intently. Clune held his breath, his ears straining.

There it was. Quick footsteps, several pairs, echoing somewhere in the building below them. As though a group of people were running in soft-soled shoes.

In a low voice, Sickert said: “Go in the main bedroom, kid. Under the bed there’s a sliding panel. The handle’s cut into the floor, toward the wall. Open it and get in the space underneath and pull it shut. It’ll feel stifling as hell, but you’ve got to put up with it. When the coast is clear, I’ll knock like this.” His knuckles rapped out the
shave-and-a-haircut
rhythm on the coffee table between them.

When Clune didn’t move, Sickert lunged forward and waved furiously with his free hand.
“Go, go, go.”

Clune scrambled down the short passage towards the bedroom, suddenly afraid because the footsteps were getting closer now, as though the people had moved one floor up. He heard the banging of fists against doors, the mutter of unintelligible voices.

In the bedroom, he rolled under the bed, wincing as a protruding bedspring scratched his cheek. He groped across the floorboards until his fingertips found a curved dip near the wall. It took a little pressure, but he felt the panel slide toward him on hidden rollers, and he gazed into the space below.

It was maybe three feet deep, long enough to fit a man a few inches taller than him, just about wide enough to accommodate his shoulders. Clune had gathered from Sickert that this apartment was normally used as a refuge for women hiding from violent husbands or boyfriends. It seemed the hiding places were designed to fit women.

He stared into the coffin-like space, and felt the same giddiness he’d experienced when Sickert was describing the effects of a .44 Magnum bullet on the human body.