Hell's Horizon (18 page)

“Please fill in the name of the deceased and any details you care to include. Age, address, known relatives, et cetera.”

“Do I have to?”

“I’m afraid so. You have blue clearance. That requires a form. It will be locked away unseen, and may only be retrieved by direct order of The Cardinal.”

“And me.”

He shook his head. “No, sir. Only The Cardinal.”

“You mean, once I drop this off, I can’t reclaim it or check on it?”

“You can do anything with the
bag
, sir, take or move it as you please. It’s the form you can’t touch. That remains the property of The Cardinal.”

“Where does it go?”

“I can’t say. But I assure you, only The Cardinal or someone with his express authorization can access it.”

“I don’t have to include my name?”

“No, sir.”

“What if I made up a name for the…?” I shook the bag.

The clerk smiled. “You may lie to The Cardinal if you wish, sir.”

I scowled, then scribbled the name of Allegro Jinks. Since I knew nothing about the man, I left the rest of the form blank, sealed it and passed it back to the clerk.

“I don’t want the
object
taken out of the bag,” I told him.

“Very good, sir.”

“How would I retrieve it again if I wanted it?”

“I’ll give you a slip when I’m finished processing it,” he said. “The box’s number will be on it.”

“Will I be the only one who knows the number?”

He shrugged. “We’ll have a record saying the box is occupied but that’s all the information that will be in the system.”

I was going to leave it at that when I had a brain wave. Only Wami and I knew what had happened to Jinks. If Nic had been encouraged by another to persuade Jinks to reinvent himself, that party might come looking for their missing puppet.

“Is there a way of tagging names?” I asked. “Of setting things up so, if someone asks about a certain name, I can be informed?”

The clerk nodded. “For those with clearance, yes.”

“Do I have clearance?”

“Most certainly, sir.”

“Let’s do it.”

He keyed up another screen and again handed control to me. “Type the corpse’s name at the top. Tab down, then add your own and how you wish to be contacted. If anybody asks us to search for it on our system, you’ll be notified.”

“What if they don’t give their name?”

“Then we will simply inform you of their interest.”

“Is there any way, by doing this, that they can trace the corpse to me?”

“No, sir. Not unless The Cardinal authorizes the release of your details.”

I typed in the two names and my number, pressed Enter and watched the information disappear with a beep. Seconds later it was finished. The clerk handed me a slip of paper while the bag was placed on a tray, soon to be removed and boxed. I let myself out, cycled home and began mopping up blood.

14

I
f Wami was telling the truth—and, as he said, it would be easier for him to kill me than lie—I’d have to look for a new prime suspect. It was a pain having to start over again, but at the same time a relief to know he wasn’t involved. And it had done my confidence no end of good—if I could survive a confrontation with Paucar Wami, I figured I could survive just about anything.

I spent Saturday digging for connections between Allegro Jinks and the Troops at the Skylight. Jinks had a string of arrests and convictions stretching back to his childhood, four years as a juvenile detainee, a total of eight years behind bars since he turned eighteen. He was hooked on crack, did some dealing when he was low on cash. Affiliated with several gangs at different times, but none since he’d snitched on two of his
brothers
in exchange for leniency.

There was surprisingly little violence in his past. Jinks was a coward. Avoided fights whenever possible. Stole from his women—the few there’d been—but never beat them. Never killed anyone, though he’d boasted of it. Maybe Nic was taken in by the boasts. Perhaps the thought of bedding a killer had excited her and, when she discovered the truth, she’d made him over as Paucar Wami in the hope that some of the killer’s dark passion would rub off on a look-alike.

I couldn’t find any direct links to the Troops. One lived a couple of blocks from where Jinks had boarded since completing his last prison spell. Another six had grown up in the same neighborhood, so might have known him as kids. A further three—one of whom was a rent boy, which sounded promising—had served time in prison while he was there.

I cleared it with Frank before talking with the jailbirds. Two were on duty at the Skylight; the other was at home. Frank summoned all three to Party Central and I went one-on-one with them, quizzing them about their pasts, Nic Hornyak and Allegro Jinks.

None of the Troops had known Nic personally, though all were familiar with her name following the furor at the Skylight. The rent boy remembered Jinks from prison. He said he’d bought grass from Jinks a couple of times—Jinks managed to smuggle in a stash, and for a while made a tidy profit, until he smoked what he had left—but that was as far as their relationship stretched.

None of them knew what Jinks was doing these days, where he was staying or what had become of him. They seemed to be telling the truth, so I crossed them off my list and looked to pastures new.

Priscilla called late Saturday. A long conversation. She was more open now that I knew the truth about her. Talked freely about Nic and the tricks they’d pulled. I asked if she was prepared to provide me with a list of Nic’s boyfriends. No, but she said she’d introduce me to friends, colleagues and customers of theirs. She also promised to get in contact with Nic’s old beaux and ask them to talk to me. We agreed to make a start in the morning.

“Not too early,” she giggled. “I spell Saturday night P-A-R-T-Y.”

While Priscilla went to party, I returned to my mire of papers—they covered the floor like a plague—and panned through them for a clue that would place me on the track of the killer.

Nic’s friends were understandably loath to discuss their private affairs, and if I’d been alone I’d have gotten nothing out of them. But Priscilla sweet-talked them and got most to open up. We didn’t learn anything. A few had tricked with Nic in the past but none had seen or heard from her the night of the murder. They didn’t know of any dangerous customers she’d been with. Nobody recognized the name of Allegro Jinks.

A few mentioned Nic’s interest in the occult. A teenager with a line of holes up his arm like a seam had seen Nic crouched over a paper bag in an alley once. “Her face was painted like those Indians in the movies. Or the Africans. The ones with war paint or whatever the hell. Squiggly lines, circles, triangles, that sorta shit.” She’d been naked, staggering around, muttering to herself, lifting the bag to her face and inhaling. After a while she dumped the bag in a trash bin and staggered away. The kid went for a peek.

“It was a dead rat!” he squeaked. “The paper was soaked through with its blood. That’s what she’d been sniffing. I steered clear of her after that.”

One of her friends said Nicola had tried interesting her in black magic. “She was always urging me to read weird books—
tomes
, she called them. I looked at a few. Ugly, horrible things. Photos of dead animals, lurid masks, incantations to raise the dead.”

I asked if Nic had invited her to spiritual meetings.

“A couple of times.”

With whom?

“Some Ziegler guy.”

Rudi
.

There were more like that, with similar stories. Nearly everyone who’d known her said she’d been mixed up in witchcraft, sorcery, dark magic, “shit like that.” I decided maybe I should give the human sacrifice theory more thought.

I called Ellen on Tuesday and asked how she was getting on with Ziegler. She wasn’t happy to hear from me.

“I said I’d call when I had something to report,” she snapped.

“I know. I was just—”

“Don’t pressure me.”

“I’m not—”

“If you call again, the deal’s off.”

And that was that.

I enjoyed the couple of days I spent with Priscilla. She insisted on linking arms whenever we were walking and had a nice habit of resting her head on my shoulder and mumbling in a low voice that only I could hear. I never made a pass, but I spent a lot of time imagining the two of us getting it on, undressing her with my eyes when she wasn’t watching.

Tuesday night, she said I’d have to do without her until the weekend. She’d been neglecting her job at the salon but couldn’t call in sick indefinitely. She invited me out Friday, after work, to meet more of her friends. I said I’d think about it and get in touch. She favored me with a kiss as we parted, a sisterly peck. There was nothing romantic or promising in the kiss, but I spent most of the night dreaming about it.

I meant to dive back into the paperwork on Wednesday—looking for links between Ziegler, Jinks and the Troops—but when I stared around at the files and their bulging intestines, a switch clicked off inside my head. I’d been cramming my brain with profiles, theories, facts and figures for nearly two weeks. I needed a break. And, since I was my own boss, I took one.

I cycled to Shankar’s for breakfast, a full meal to set me up for the day. I ate by myself, not wanting anything to distract me from my day of rest. Went for a long walk by the river afterward, two hours at medium stride. The scenery wasn’t much but it was nice to watch the boats drift by. I’d always dreamed of owning a boat. If I cracked the case, maybe I’d ask The Cardinal for a small yacht by way of a reward, take a few months off and sail up and down the coast.

It was a sweltering day and I was soaked with sweat by the end of the walk. I was heading for home and a shower when I had a better idea, located a public pool and went for a swim. Did forty lengths, changing strokes at regular intervals. Felt like a fish by the time I got out.

I went to a bar called the Penguin’s Craw later. A quiet drinking hole, no music, TV or gimmicks. Just alcohol, a bar and plenty of chairs. I ordered a cup of coffee and watched a couple of guys in their sixties playing darts. I got to chatting to them about their children, what they’d worked at before retiring and how they spent their time these days.

I cruised the city after that, walking aimlessly, mingling with the late-night crowds. I popped into a twenty-four-hour bookshop and picked up a James Ellroy page-turner. Wandered down to the river again and observed the boats, now lit up and filled with drunken revelers. Went for a late supper in a pirate-themed restaurant called Blackbeard’s Galley. Got home about one and went to bed.

I enjoyed the break so much, I took Thursday off as well. Alas, my second day of rest was cut short when my cell phone buzzed as I was just starting the Ellroy book.

“What is it?” I snapped.

“Mr. Jeery?” A female voice. Unfamiliar.

“Yeah?”

“My name’s Monica Hope. I work at the Fridge. You wished to be notified if we received any inquiries regarding Allegro Jinks?”

My heart beat fast. “Yes.”

“There’s been one.”

I grabbed a pen. “Did he leave a name?”

“Yes, sir.”

Touchdown!

His name was Breton Furst and he was one of the Troops who’d been guarding the Skylight the night of Nic’s murder. One of the cleaner of the clan, never served time, no illegal habits, married since nineteen, three kids, trustworthy.

I didn’t ask Frank for permission to interview him—I’d have had to tell him about Jinks if I did, and that was something I’d prefer to keep between myself and Furst. I checked his whereabouts with Party Central and learned he was at home on a day’s leave. I got the address and shot across town.

He was on the street when I arrived, loading a basket into the back of his car, preparing for a picnic. His two oldest kids—a boy and a girl—were in the backseat, leaning on the headrests, watching their father. His wife emerged, youngest kid in tow, and asked if he had everything. He said he did and she shut the door and started for the car.

“Mr. Furst! Breton!” I yelled, propping my bike against a wall and hurrying over. He glanced at me suspiciously, right hand edging toward the pistol I could see strapped to his left side. I smiled and showed my empty palms. I recognized his face from photos in the file, but he didn’t know me.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His wife had stopped on the pavement and was passing a bag to the kids in the backseat. The youngest had wandered toward his daddy.

“My name’s Al Jeery. I have to—”

“I’ve heard of you. You work at Party Central, right?”

“Right. I have to talk to you.”

He frowned and looked at his wife and children. “Can’t it wait?”

“It’s about Allegro Jinks.” His face dropped and he glanced around. An elderly gentleman was on the sidewalk farther up, washing his car. A woman pushed a stroller along the opposite pavement, a second kid following behind.

“You’re just here to talk?” He looked nervous.

“That’s all.”

He sighed. “I don’t think I can help, but come on in. Just let me—”

He was turning to tell his wife about the delay when he staggered and took a few steps back. I thought he’d lost his footing, but then I spotted a red stain spreading down the front of his shirt. I realized the twitching in his hands was the start of a death rattle, not a feeble attempt to regain his balance.

“Breton?” his wife asked sharply. She moved toward him, to steady him on his feet, but he hit the ground before she cleared the car. “Breton!” she screamed, and darted forward. She opened her mouth to scream again. Before she could, a bullet made a fleshy rag of her throat. She collapsed to her knees, then crawled to her already-dead husband.

“Stay back!” I roared. Stunned as I was, my gun had leaped into my hand and I was covering the rows of houses across the road. But the assassin had struck too quickly. I hadn’t managed to pinpoint his location. “Mrs. Furst! Don’t come any—”

The top of her head fanned out in a cloud of blood and hair and she fell facedown. The two kids in the backseat began to scream their lungs out. The girl hammered at the window, yelling, “Mommy! Mommy!” The boy kicked wildly at his door, which must have been child locked.

“Stay down!” I shouted. “Get your heads the fuck down!”

They didn’t hear me. The boy abandoned the lock and rolled down the window. He was halfway out when his chest erupted in a forest of red, bony splinters. His head flew back, connected hard with the roof—not that it mattered by this stage—then slumped forward.

I made the marksman—two houses to the left, second-story window—and fired. But I was on the ground with a handgun. He was in an elevated position with a rifle. I should have saved my ammunition.

The glass in the rear window of the car shattered over the girl. She shrieked with pain and covered her face with her hands. She fell out of sight and for a few seconds I thought she was going to stay there, out of harm’s way. Then she sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, yelling about her eyes, pleading for help, calling for her mommy. There were two soft popping sounds—like damp lips peeling apart—and she cried no more.

I was on one knee now, gun braced, focused on my target. I hit the window—no small feat from where I was—and the sniper drew back. My eyes swiveled to the youngest of the Furst children, the sole survivor. He was by his father, tugging at the dead man’s bloodied shirt, bawling, too young to understand what was happening but old enough to realize something was seriously amiss.

I should have held my position or ducked behind the car, but how could I leave a kid out in the open, at the mercy of a killer who had shown none?

Praying the sniper wasn’t back in position, I dived toward the boy, grabbed him with my left arm, pulled him off his feet and spun around.

A bullet nicked the top of my right arm. Red spray arced up into my eyes. I held on to my gun, useless though it was now that I was temporarily blind. Stumbling, unaccustomed to the weight of the child, I fell on my ass, presenting a ridiculous target. I started to pull the boy into my chest, planning to turn over and shield him, so at least one of us might walk away from this, but before I could make the ultimate sacrifice his face disappeared in a howl of red and I found myself staring down into a nightmare of blood, bone and brains.