Authors: George Mann
“And you, Sergeant?”
Mullins glanced at Donovan, who inclined his head. “The same,” he said. “Thank you.” Donovan thought it would do the poor guy some good, maybe steady his nerves a bit. Hell, he could do with it himself.
“Carlos, see to that,” said Abbadelli, snapping out an order to a young valet, who stood at the foot of the stairs, clearly awaiting their order. Donovan hadn’t even noticed him there. He must have sneaked up behind Abbadelli as soon as he heard the man’s voice. He scuttled off in a hurry with his orders.
“Through here, Felix. Come and talk to me in my study.” Abbadelli pushed on the door and strolled back into the room. “Carlos will have those drinks for us in just a moment.”
Donovan followed him through, trying to keep his wits about him.
The study was just like the hallway, devoid of anything resembling a real life. It was well appointed—the fixtures and fittings were all tastefully arranged, and had probably cost the earth—a leather-topped desk, rows of walnut bookcases, a Turkish rug. The books looked unread, however, and again, it lacked the personal touches. This was a room where business was done.
“Please, take a seat,” said Abbadelli, indicating two chairs before his desk. He walked around behind it and dropped into his own. It was set higher than the others, allowing him to maintain eye contact on a level with Donovan.
“Now, tell me how I can be of assistance. I do so much like assisting the New York Police Department. I have so many friends in the force, I feel like I’m part of the family.” He grinned, but there was no humor in his eyes.
Donovan tried not to rise to the bait. The thing was, the man was telling the truth. He’d already bought off half the police force, especially in the outlying precincts, and Donovan and Mullins were probably the only two homicide detectives who hadn’t already had one of these “meetings” with the man to discuss their fee. It occurred to Donovan that Abbadelli might have even thought that was the reason for their visit. It would certainly explain why he was so keen to play the illustrious host.
“A woman’s been murdered,” said Donovan. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Abbadelli frowned. “I’m very sorry to hear this,” he said. “But it puzzles me you’d bring this to my door. I am, as you know, a simple businessman.”
Donovan had expected this. Abbadelli was going to claim ignorance, attempt to whitewash the whole thing. Well, Donovan wasn’t going to let him get away with that. He decided to play it hard and straight. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he said, reaching inside his jacket pocket.
“Be my guest,” said Abbadelli, amused. He pushed a cut-glass ashtray across the desk toward Donovan.
Donovan withdrew his packet of cigarettes, along with the locket, which he’d secreted there earlier. He placed it on the desk beside the ashtray while he lit his cigarette. “Do you recognize this?” he said a moment later.
Abbadelli shrugged. “It’s a woman’s locket. I must have seen hundreds of them in my time.”
“This particular one,” said Donovan. “Does it mean anything to you?” He expelled smoke from the corner of his mouth.
“I can’t say that it does,” said Abbadelli, clearly growing impatient.
It was a dangerous game Donovan was playing, agitating the man in this way, but it was the only way he could see of getting past the smooth, implacable façade. He pushed the locket across the desk with his forefinger. “Take a closer look.”
Abbadelli picked it up, turned it over in his palm, and then clicked the release. The door hinged open, revealing a picture of Autumn Allen’s mother. He held it up, so that both Donovan and Mullins could see. “I’ve never met this woman in my life,” he said, snapping it shut.
“The other side,” said Donovan, twirling his finger in the air. “It’s got two catches.”
With a sigh, Abbadelli did as Donovan directed. The other door popped open. He stared at the photograph for a moment in silence.
“That is you, isn’t it, Mr. Abbadelli, with your arm around the woman?”
Abbadelli closed the locket and handed it back to Donovan. He slipped it back into his pocket. “Yes, that’s me,” he said. “I must have met her at a party, something like that. I can’t say I knew her well. What was her name?”
“Autumn,” said Donovan. “Autumn Allen.” He took another draw on his cigarette. “The thing is, Mr. Abbadelli, she obviously knew you. She kept a picture of you in her locket, along with one of her mother. I can’t imagine she’d have done that for a passing acquaintance.”
“You can imagine what you like,” said Abbadelli. He looked up as Carlos rapped on the door, and beckoned him in. The valet set the drinks down before them—including a brandy for Abbadelli—and then made a swift exit, pulling the door closed behind him.
“She was wearing a lot of diamonds, this woman, when we found her,” said Donovan. “Hundreds of dollars’ worth. I’m sure if Mullins here had our uniformed boys visit all of the local jewelers we’d be able to turn up some receipts.”
“Is that a threat,
Felix
?” said Abbadelli.
Donovan tried to keep his cool. “Not at all. I work for the police department, Mr. Abbadelli. We’re not interested in threats. Only in establishing the truth. Let me tell you a little story.”
“If you must,” said Abbadelli, leaning back in his chair.
“You see, this woman,” said Donovan, “she died in the most brutal way possible. The men who did this to her, they took their time. They held her still, her face pressed against the wet sidewalk, while they carefully selected each and every spot, running their hands over her body like artists preparing a canvas. Then, taking a sharp ceremonial knife, they used the tip of the blade to—very slowly and precisely—slice icons into her flesh.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Can you imagine how that must have felt? That poor woman, lying there, whimpering, crying out for help, calling for her loved ones, as these men slowly cut her flesh to ribbons, all for the glorification of some ancient god.”
He could see Abbadelli’s hands had become bunched fists on his desk. His jaw was working back and forth as he ground his teeth.
“It was a hell of an end to a young life. She’d been out for dinner, eaten pasta and drunk fine wine. She’d enjoyed a tumble between the sheets with her male admirer, and she was probably floating on cloud nine as she made her way home. Maybe if she’d had one fewer glass of wine, she’d have heard them coming, been able to get away. But she didn’t. They
did
catch her, and they
did
torture her, with no one coming to her aid.”
Donovan crushed the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray, then dusted his fingers. “After they’d finished, they choked her to death like an unwanted puppy, carved a final symbol on her back, and abandoned her there on the street. A pair of drunks, stumbling home from a jazz club, found her a few hours later when they nearly tripped over her body. They probably thought about leaving her there, but in the end their consciences got the better of them, and they called it through to the precinct. Not until they’d already got home, mind. They weren’t in that much of a hurry. After all, she was already dead.”
Abbadelli’s fist suddenly struck the top of his desk. “All right! That’s
enough
.”
He gave his drink a violent shove, and the glass tumbled off the edge of the desk, smashing on the floor before Donovan. He watched the amber liquid ooze across the tiles, and carefully adjusted his posture, moving his boots out of the way.
“Enough,” said Abbadelli, again.
“You see, all I’m looking for here is justice, Mr. Abbadelli,” said Donovan. “Justice for Autumn Allen. I’m sure you can appreciate that. I want to know who carved those symbols into her body, and I want to know why.”
Abbadelli had risen from his chair and was pacing the room now, tapping his finger against his chin, clearly wrestling with something. He stopped after a moment, seeming to make up his mind. “Say that I
did
know her. What would that mean?”
“It would simply mean that you were able to help us with our enquiries,” said Donovan. He reached for his cigarette packet and withdrew another, offering one to Abbadelli, who took it with an appreciative nod.
“You’d keep me out of it?”
“That depends,” said Donovan. “Did
you
kill her?”
“Of course I didn’t kill her!” snapped Abbadelli.
“Then in this matter, yes, I see no reason for you to concern yourself with talk of courts, or trials, or anything of that nature. So I’ll ask you again—in what capacity did you know Autumn Allen?”
“She was my lover,” said Abbadelli. “I intended for her to become my wife.”
“You loved her, then,” said Donovan.
Abbadelli nodded. For the first time since they’d met, the mob boss looked vulnerable. Whoever killed this woman had struck a very hard blow against a very powerful enemy.
“And what I said, about the events that night—I was right? You had dinner, you made love, and then she left for home by herself?”
Abbadelli slumped back into his chair, and Mullins slid his untouched whisky across to him. Abbadelli eyed him appreciatively, and then downed it in one. “I was asleep. I’d never have let her walk the streets alone at night. It’s too dangerous. You know that. Especially to… to…”
“I think we understand,” said Donovan. “To someone so connected to a
businessman
like you.”
“What we
don’t
understand is
why
,” said Mullins, finally plucking up the courage to chip in. “Someone was trying to send you a message, weren’t they? That’s what those Ancient Egyptian symbols were all about. They wanted you to know who was responsible.”
“The Circle of Thoth,” said Abbadelli. He practically spat the words.
Donovan glanced at Mullins. Now they were finally getting somewhere. “Some silly little cult. That’s all they are. Fools who think their old gods are going to protect them.”
“Protect them from what, Mr. Abbadelli?” said Donovan.
“It’s just some crackpot religion. Who knows what they believe? Look, they’re the ones who killed Autumn. That’s what those marks were all about. They were placing a curse on her, or some kind of curse on me. That’s the last thing they said to me. That I’d be cursed for what I’d done to them.”
“And what had you done to them?”
“Nothing! Not really. Look, there’s a scrap of land on the Upper East Side. It’s been sitting derelict for years. Land is a precious commodity on Manhattan; you know that, so does everyone. I wanted to buy it, that’s all. Build a new hotel, maybe a bar. I did a bit of digging, found out who owned it. Turned out to be this ‘Circle of Thoth’. I thought it would be an easy transaction—take a bit of useless land off their hands, fill their coffers.”
“But they didn’t want to sell,” said Mullins.
Abbadelli nodded. “I might have leaned on them a little too hard. I tried to persuade them into letting it go. It was nothing more than that—just a little pressure in the right places. Or so I thought.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It was after that they started talking about all this apocalyptic stuff. The End of Days, how the earth would soon resemble the heavens, and how my soul was going to be cursed through all eternity for the things I’d done.”
He realized his cigarette had burned down to his fingers while he’d been talking, and he dropped it in the ashtray. “I thought that was it, some ridiculous magic spell, a ‘curse upon my soul’. Then people started turning up dead.”
“
People
?” said Donovan. “Not just Ms. Allen?”
Abbadelli realized he’d said too much. Donovan could see it in his eyes. He ignored the question. “They killed her over a scrap of land,” he said. “And you know what, I wasn’t even that bothered about it. I saw a chance to make a few quick bucks, that’s all. And now those bastards have gone and done this.”
“You should have come to us,” said Donovan.
Abbadelli smiled. “A man like me? Not so much.”
“Where can we find them?” said Mullins. “The Circle of Thoth. Do they have an office, a church, someplace where you always met?”
“They did,” said Abbadelli, “but I hear it burned down in a terrible accident.” He stared at Donovan, willing him to defy him.
Donovan decided to play it cool. “And you’ve no idea where they’ve moved on to since? This scrap of land you mentioned?”
“There’s nothing there. It’s just a patch of wasteland. The hotel that once stood there was demolished years ago. There’s nowhere for them to go.”
“This exhibition that’s coming to the Met,” said Donovan. “The one that’s opening tomorrow. Has that got anything to do with this ‘Circle of Thoth’?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” said Abbadelli.
“All right,” said Donovan. “I think we’ve got enough to be getting along with.” He grabbed his whisky off the desk and drained the glass. It hit the back of his throat with a welcome burn. “Thank you for your time.”
Abbadelli came around from the other side of the desk, and clasped Donovan by the hand again. “No, thank
you
, Felix. I appreciate your discretion. I really do. Everything you’re doing to find Autumn’s killers—it won’t go unnoticed. You should come to dinner one night. Maybe bring Flora, eh?”
Donovan swallowed. “Maybe once this is all taken care of,” he said, as diplomatically as possible.
“Yes, of course, of course,” said Abbadelli. He patted Mullins on the shoulder. “Don’t let him work you too hard, Sergeant,” he said. He walked them to the door. “I trust you can find your own way out?”
“We’ll be in touch,” said Donovan.
“I’ll be waiting,” came the ominous reply.
“You always manage to pick the worst possible moments. It’s as if you’re
trying
to make my life difficult.”
“Only trying?” said Gabriel. “I must admit, I thought I was doing better than that.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Arthur, heaving an affected sigh. “Remind me what it is that you want again? I tuned out on the holophone after you said the words ‘urgent’, ‘must meet’, and ‘today’.”
Gabriel laughed. Arthur Wolfe was one of his most trusted acquaintances—a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They’d been through a lot together, and Arthur never allowed him to forget it. Not that he was genuinely put out—it was just another of his English affectations.