The 8th Circle Page 11

  “He’s got nothin’ if the DA decides to charge him with murder,” Kevin said.

  “It’s hard to say how the DA will want to proceed. It’s a difficult situation.”

  Novell was right. Finding a body wasn’t a crime, any more than finding a heart. Other than the body itself, no physical evidence tied Danny to the murder. The body appeared to have been dead for more than twenty-four hours when Danny found it. In his bed. He certainly hadn’t hauled it back from the city in Andy Cohen’s hired limo. And it hadn’t been in the house in the afternoon when Kevin and his partner had headed out to check, just to be sure, after getting a search warrant. Everything had been normal, except there was no Beowulf to greet him at the door.

  According to the Crime Scene Unit, there was no blood spatter at the scene. In fact, the body had been exsanguinated and hosed down with great care before it was arranged in the bed. Whoever did the killing was playing some kind of mind game. Maybe the killer knew how fucked up Danny’s head already was.

  Goddammit, why couldn’t Danny just go back to writing his stupid column? Tormenting politicians was what he did best. Kevin didn’t always agree with him, but he had to admit Danny had a way of saying things that got people fired up. This poking around shit was going to get him killed.

  “Your brother have a substance problem?” Novell said.

  “It’s the headaches.” Kevin turned back to Danny, who cradled his head in his arms. He took a deep breath. “He fractured his skull when he was a kid.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Danny. He fell down the stairs and fractured his skull. He started getting them after that. The migraines. The doctors said it happens sometimes.” Kevin tried to unclench his fists.

  So much goddamn blood. It’d soaked into the floorboards in the front hall. Some nights, Kevin would dream it all over again. He’d hear the crack of Danny’s skull against the radiator and wake up in a cold sweat. Those nights, there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to drown his guilt.

  “Maybe you could let him sleep for an hour or two?” Kevin said.

  “We can proceed however you’d like, Detective Ryan. I’d say we have a jurisdictional nightmare here. It’s going to take some time to straighten it out.” Novell was all business now.

  “Agreed. Though the Philly PD will probably get priority. We got the heart when it was fresh. That means in all probability, the murder occurred in Philly, and the body was dumped out here. Assuming the DNA matches. The heart definitely belonged to a female.”

  “Which means it’s unlikely your brother had anything to do with her death since his time is accounted for from at least three thirty AM yesterday on.”

  Kevin knew Novell was waiting for him to say something, but he continued to stare into the interrogation room. He wanted to break through the door and grab Danny by the throat. Goddamn him. Why couldn’t he listen?

  “But you still want us to treat him like he’s the number one suspect. Mind if I ask why?”

  Kevin turned back to Novell. Novell might turn out to be a rat bastard, but there was no point trying to lie. Novell was too smart a cop. Those cold eyes of his didn’t miss much.

  Kevin took a deep breath. “All right. It won’t make much sense to you, Detective, but I’m trying to save his life.”

  28

  Danny lay on the narrow cot and stared at the ceiling. As cells went, this one wasn’t bad. It was clean and relatively quiet, and he didn’t have to share quarters. He’d been able to sleep for a few hours at least.

  The fuzz from the medicine had worn off, but the world around him seemed gray, like the color had bled out, and he hovered somewhere between substance and shadow. Wasn’t that the first sign of mental illness? The world around you became unreal? Danny pressed the heels of his palms against his cheeks. That felt real enough.

  He heard Novell’s voice down the hall and then approaching footsteps. The cell door rolled back. He sat up and swung around to face Novell.

  “Good morning,” Novell said. He looked pretty wrecked himself. Eyes bloodshot, cheeks stubbled, face wan. He held out a container of coffee. “It’s black, but I can get you cream and sugar.”

  Danny took the cup. “Thanks. I take back every bad thing I ever said about cops.”

  “How about we stop dancing around and you talk straight to me.”

  “Are we dancing?” Danny eyed Novell and wondered why they were going through this routine here instead of an interrogation room.

  “What did Michael Cohen say to you?”

  “How do you know he said anything?”

  “Because whenever there’s a weird murder, you’re right there. And before that, near as I can determine, you qualified for zombie of the year.”

  Danny ignored the dig. “I think I should call my lawyer.”

  “You aren’t being charged with anything. The DA doesn’t think we have enough to proceed to a grand jury; therefore, no indictment. Yet.”

  He wanted to tell Novell, but something held him back. His residual distrust of cops, his natural inclination to hate authority. Who could he trust? He wasn’t sure anymore. But he knew this whole situation was getting out of control.

  “Michael was dying,” Danny said.

  Zach had said the Inferno was management. Maybe Michael found out who those managers were. Maybe that was the information he was bringing the night he was killed.

  “Answer my question, Ryan, or you’re on your own. And trust me, right now, you really don’t want to be on your own.”

  That sounded ominous. “Because?”

  “The press has gotten wind of your heartless girlfriend. We have media guys all over the place. Looks like you’re a celebrity again.”

  Danny could almost hear the cameras and feel the heat of the klieg lights. He could hear the old man laughing. The vultures are after you now, boy. Serves you right.

  Danny looked at Novell. “He said ‘Inferno.’”

  He thought Novell would laugh, but instead he sat down on the edge of the cot. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure. I think it’s tied to sex clubs in this area.”

  “Michael Cohen told you that?” Novell’s face turned the color of ash.

  “What do you know about it? I can tell you know something.”

  Novell hesitated and patted his pockets as if feeling for a pack of cigarettes or a flask. “A few years ago, there was an FBI investigation into the Inferno. They turned up nothing, but two agents were killed. It was a clusterfuck from the beginning.”

  “You ever hear of Tophet?”

  “I heard a lot of things. But nothing panned out. The investigation was shut down. Lack of evidence.” He looked at Danny, his eyes tired. “I’ll tell you this much. If you’re poking up that particular sewer, get out. Some things were meant to be left in the dark.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  Novell sighed. “Maybe not. But you’d better.”

  29

  Carrie Norton stood in the middle of her kitchen surrounded by the aroma of butter cookies and cinnamon candles. She swallowed the last of her chamomile tea, took a deep breath, and dialed Danny Ryan’s number. The phone rang and rang until the voice mail kicked in, and she hung up. She’d already left three messages. She’d tried his e-mail. Nothing.

  He’d stopped by Gran’s house, and she’d missed him. Now he just wasn’t around.

  Could he have gone on vacation? She didn’t hear his dog bark when she went to the door. Maybe he went away with someone.

  Another woman? Gram told her that women were always visiting, dropping off food. Gram knew because she liked to use her telescope to watch out the window. Those women smelled money, she said. That’s what always happened when a man lost his wife.

  “You better get down there if you want a shot,” Gram had said before she left for Florida. “Those women are worse than hyenas. Danny Ryan’ll be married again, and he won’t know what hit him. Mark my words. And for God’s sake, wear something that doesn�
�t look like a potato sack.”

  Carrie had the dress all picked out. Something modest, but everyone told her that blue brought out her eyes. She just hoped he’d notice. Poor Danny had seemed so distracted when she’d stopped by at Thanksgiving with grief counseling pamphlets and pumpkin pie. Overmedicated, Gram had said. He’d looked so gaunt. He needed someone to take care of him.

  Maybe she’d wear some mascara and eyeliner with her lipstick. If only her hair were long and dark like his late wife’s. She shook her head and stared at her shoulder-length hair in the mirror. It was just so mousy. Maybe she could get a few highlights. Would that be vanity? Gram would approve, but she wanted her to get a bikini wax when Carrie would never ever wear a bikini. Reverend Gray would be appalled.

  Carrie flipped through the stack of mail. No bills. Mostly Christmas cards that got mixed in with Gram’s and this package. She picked up the box. It was heavy for its size. There wasn’t a return address, and the brown paper wrapping was spotted and dirty. It probably wasn’t anything urgent, but she’d feel better handing it to him. Then she could give him the cookies and the Christmas flyer she’d just gotten from Church of Good News about the Christian singles’ night.

  She’d mention it casually.

  In the meantime, she’d see about getting those highlights.

  30

  Until he ran the gauntlet for himself, Danny had hoped Novell had lied about the media. But they were waiting as promised, and he had to push through the jostling reporters and duck the cameras, microphones, and cell phones thrust into his face.

  He tried to ignore their shouted questions as he walked between Novell and McFarland to Novell’s Crown Vic, careful to keep his head down and his eyes on the ground. He was grateful McFarland shielded him from the cameras. The young cop’s dark eyes were sympathetic, but lack of sleep left his face wan, his lips drawn tight with tension.

  “You all right?” McFarland said.

  Danny nodded. “Where are you taking me?”

  “We can take you home to get your things, but you can’t stay until the CSU is finished.” McFarland exchanged a look with Novell. “Do you have a friend you’d like to stay with?”

  “I’ll stay in a hotel.”

  “You might consider buying a new bed,” McFarland said.

  A new bed. A new house. Maybe a new life. Just as soon as he figured out who was behind this insanity. If they thought they’d scared him off, they were wrong. All he had to do was figure out who they were. Before they cut out his heart.

  Danny wondered if Zach gave up Ivy to save himself or if he was tucked away in a freezer someplace just waiting to be thawed out and dumped in pieces. Maybe he’d find Zach’s liver in his shower next or his head on a platter with an apple in his mouth. The possibilities were endless, and the holidays added a whole new festive dimension.

  Someone called his name, and he looked up. Stupid. Cameras whirled and clicked. McFarland gave him a gentle nudge.

  Danny slid into the car and stared out the window at the crush of reporters who had followed them through the police parking lot. A thin, blond man lowered his camera and pushed against the car. He wore a black scarf that covered the lower half of his face, but he pressed against the window, his pale-blue eyes filled with a terrible longing.

  A vulture. Or worse.

  “Let’s move,” Novell said, and McFarland pulled out of the parking lot.

  31

  Rain pounded on the roof of the church like giant fists, and Kate suppressed a shudder. The cold sunk into her bones. Look, Ma. I’m in an Episcopalian church, and I haven’t been struck dead yet. She summoned the thought as if bravado would fight off the persistent feeling of doom. She woke up with it, her mouth tasting of ashes.

  Kate bowed her head and tried to concentrate on the priest and his sermon, but the words wouldn’t register. On Judgment Day, would the Lord reunite Congressman Powell with his body? He didn’t need to be cremated. He was already incinerated; now he sat on the altar in a silver urn, mixed in with parts of his Cadillac. Salon de Powell.

  What an insane thought.

  She wondered where Danny was. When she’d told him that Michael had been with her that last night, his face had turned the color of milk, and she’d thought he was going to be sick.

  Someone close by was wearing cologne so intense, it made her eyes water, and in the raw, damp air, it smelled sweet and foul at the same time. Death sat here.

  Dear God, he’s come for me.

  Kate glanced around. Dignified mourners filled the rows. She noticed the blonde woman on her left who clutched a handkerchief and pressed it against her face, but the woman’s hands, those long, white fingers made her shiver. Kate had seen hands like that before.

  Hinky dinky corny cup, how many fingers have I got up? She guessed three, but two it is.

  Kate could hear the screams echoing through her head, and she wanted to press her hands against her ears. She started when the senator put his hand on her shoulder and leaned close.

  “Are you all right, Kate? You’re trembling.”

  “I think I’ve caught a chill.” She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t let him see her panic.

  “But why didn’t you say something? Come.” He linked his arm in hers and led her from the pew. She slid a glance toward the woman. All Kate could see was a sleek bob of blonde hair, the line of her cheek, streaks of dark gray shadow across her eyelids. The same, yet not.

  “Senator, I’m so sorry,” she said when they reached the vestibule.

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” his voice soothed. “You clearly weren’t feeling well this morning. We’ll slip out, and I’ll have Albert drop you home.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Nonsense.” His eyes were filled with concern now. “I hadn’t planned to return to the office today. It will do us both good to take an afternoon.”

  “You’ve always been very kind to me, Senator. I’m grateful.” Kate knew she sounded stilted, but something about him demanded her formality and distance. Maybe it was the decorum of his office, or maybe there was something about the way he carried himself. If someone placed a crown on his head and draped him in robes of ermine and scarlet velvet, he would have looked perfectly normal.

  In truth, he’d barely acknowledged her the first few years she worked for him, and she’d cringed whenever he did. But it had changed when his daughter died and she had left him that ridiculous healing stone. After she’d put it on his desk with the sympathy card, she’d wanted so much to retrieve it, but it was too late.

  She’d quaked when he’d called her into his office, and the gloom of the late December afternoon had filled the room with long shadows. Among the fruit baskets and flower arrangements, her offering had seemed both foolish and insignificant, and she hadn’t been able to look at him.

  He’d said nothing for so long that the colors in his Oriental rug smeared into a blur.

  “I’ve received many expressions of sympathy,” he’d said at last. “But yours may be the most heartfelt. And unique.”

  His chair had creaked when he’d risen and walked to her. He’d placed his hand on her shoulder. “I believe I’ve overlooked you, Kate.”

  From then on, he’d seemed to take a special interest in her. Kate couldn’t quite define it, but she’d understood that at least for the moment, she’d gained his favor.

  Now the senator paused in the vestibule to slide into his coat. “I’ve always been grateful to you for your hard work and loyalty.” Did he emphasize the word loyalty just slightly?

  He reached into his suit pocket and produced the green stone.

  “You see? I still carry this with me. I never forgot. You’re very special to Mrs. Harlan and me. We feel protective of you.” He paused and took a breath. “Especially since we lost our Beth.”

  “It was a terrible accident, sir.”

  “I’m not sure it was an accident.” The senator’s voice was filled with such sorrow that she thought her h
eart would break, but his eyes were black tunnels. “I was foolish. I lost what was most precious to me because of my damnable pride.”

  “I don’t understand.” The chill crawled down under the collar of her coat and spread over her like a fine web. She couldn’t stop shaking.

  “My daughter was headstrong. Too much like me, I’m afraid. She made a very regrettable marital choice, and we fought about it. We never fully reconciled. I’ve never forgiven myself. Life is so short. You never think, as a parent, well, the worst will happen.” He sounded so sincere, so melancholy, yet his eyes seemed so fathomless, so dead.

  “I’m sorry, Senator.”

  “My poor Kate. You’re trembling with cold, and I’m talking about myself. I’m afraid it goes with the territory.” The senator’s voice grew warm, and his eyes filled with life. Kate almost laughed. She was an idiot. Of course he looked solemn. He was talking about his daughter.

  “Let’s get you home right away, dear. I happen to know there’s a restaurant near your apartment that makes excellent soup. Seventeen varieties. I’ll order you some and have Albert stop on the way to pick it up.”

  The senator gave her shoulders one last squeeze. He opened the church doors and led her out into the storm.

  32

  Since he was officially deemed cured, Mason kept his exceptional treasures hidden in his special room, a place filled with wonderful things. An antique Aubusson covered the parquet floor, and the furniture, including the white divan, was Louis XVI. The eyes, specially preserved in acrylic cubes, glistened like rare gems in the clear medium. Most beautiful of all were the wings that hung from the arched ceiling.