The 8th Circle Read online

  “I don’t know.”

  Andy downed the scotch and poured another. “It’s a shitty thing to be disappointed in your son and have him know it.”

  Danny stared down at his lap. He could hear Michael’s voice in his ear. My father hates me. “Michael did his best.”

  “He was strictly second string.” Andy swallowed his drink. Lines of scarlet-and-gold light slashed across his face, and he pointed his glass at the cell phone on his desk. “That’s all we have now. Goddamn Internet. We don’t even have a police reporter anymore. We have citizens with cell phones. Papers are dying. We should be saying Kaddish for journalists.” Andy poured himself another drink. “I want you to come back, Daniel. I miss you. I can see it now. Just like before. Your face on the side of a bus. ‘Get your Dan Ryan fix only at the Philadelphia Sentinel.’”

  Danny didn’t want to hear it today. “That’s a pretty lame slogan.”

  “You’re pretty lame right now. You’ve worn black for a year. Life goes on.”

  “When did you move Michael off the celebrity news?”

  “Who says I did?”

  “Linda said he was writing about Philly restaurants.”

  “He wanted to expand his repertoire. Do restaurant reviews. I figured what the hell. We lost our food critic.”

  “Did he mention the Inferno?”

  “Is it a restaurant?”

  “I doubt it. It is a book.”

  “Touché. I’m a bit rusty on my Dante. A little too steeped in Christian ethos for my taste, I’m afraid. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s something Michael said. Right before he died.”

  Andy considered his empty glass. “Oh?”

  “It has to mean something. Michael was dying. He knew it. Why would he say that?”

  Andy set down the glass and looked at him. “Maybe he had a vision. Maybe he’d just read Dante, though Michael never was big on reading. How’s that for irony?”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Doesn’t it? Then maybe you aren’t worth hiring back.”

  Danny’s stomach twisted into a cold knot. “Jesus Christ. Maybe he found a story.”

  Andy shrugged. “Ah, there is life in there. Peculiar as it seems, Michael may have stumbled upon something, so stop feeling sorry for yourself and do your job. That suits you.”

  “Does it suit you?” Just once Danny wanted Andy to say that he was sorry about Michael, to act like a goddamn father. Christ, he was gripping the arms of his chair. He forced his fingers to relax.

  Andy bared his teeth in something between a smirk and a grimace. He poured himself more scotch. “My son is dead. You should respect that.”

  “Why do you think he came to see me?”

  “You don’t have to do three columns a week. Just Sunday. Maybe Wednesday.”

  Danny leaned forward. “Why wouldn’t he go to the hospital?”

  “And a blog, of course.”

  “I guess I could finish Michael’s article.”

  For a moment, Andy’s face seemed to turn to stone, and then he downed his scotch. “You want to hit the clubs and pick up girls? Fine. Go find someone to suck your dick. You could use it.”

  “I thought Michael was doing restaurant reviews.”

  Andy waved his hand. “I want you to come back to work. Just like the old days. Period.”

  “Just like the old days.” Danny didn’t feel it wise to mention his case of writer’s block. The words would come. Eventually.

  Andy poured another and turned back to the window. Danny recognized he had been dismissed.

  *

  Danny slipped down the twisting path to the carriage house Michael had called home. He’d made this trip many times when Michael’s pleas for company had stung his conscience. It had bothered him that Michael felt compelled to shop for food for those visits—caviar and crackers, smoked salmon, imported wine and beer—that he would leave rotting around the apartment until the cleaning service disposed of it.

  “Michael,” Danny had said more than once. “Why don’t we go out? I’ll pay.” Michael had always refused. He’d hoarded those visits, maybe because he was so starved for friendship he needed to savor them in private.

  Danny fitted the key Michael had given him into the lock, pushed open the door, and flicked on the lights. The place reeked of orange furniture polish, bleach, and fresh paint.

  Michael’s furniture had been a hodgepodge of remnants from his college days, spotted and soiled with black substances that made Danny’s skin itch. It had been Michael’s feeble rebellion against his father’s wealth, like his battered BMW, his badge of honor, the way he’d proved he was just a regular guy, albeit with a thirty-million-dollar trust fund.

  Now only a black leather couch and matching lounge chair took up the living room. Some small jade sculptures and a few decorative plates Michael had never owned lined the built-in shelves. A red carpet with bold geometric shapes covered the floor.

  It looked as if a house tour was scheduled to go through the place.

  It took the Cohens less than two days to clear Michael’s apartment, and he wondered where Michael’s memories were. Could you take thirty-eight years, shove them in a box, and pretend they weren’t there? Or maybe, like Andy, you drowned them in bottles of Glenfiddich.

  What the hell was the rush?

  Danny went upstairs. One bedroom and bath, both cleared, save for a double bed, a chest of drawers, and a bookcase. He went to the bookcase and perused the titles. He doubted Michael had read Dickens or Twain, but Elements of Game Theory and Elements of Calculus had a well-worn look.

  Michael’s computer manuals sat in a neat pile. Christ, Michael had loved his computers. Online he had the personality he had lacked in person, and he had spent hours roaming the Internet looking for other lonely beings. Danny found two homemade DVDs with carefully produced labels stuck into the plastic sleeves of one of the manuals. They’d be easy to overlook among the stack of operating discs. He slipped them into his pocket. No computers. He supposed the police had confiscated them.

  He went to the closet, crouched down on the floor, and groped for the loose floorboard he knew was there. It was where Michael had kept his stash.

  “You should get high, Danny,” Michael used to say. “This is great shit.”

  But Danny had watched his sister Theresa slide down that black hole. In any case, Michael had plenty of friends when he had dope.

  Danny pulled the board free and groped underneath until his fingers closed over a small tin box. Inside sat a baggie about one-third filled with white powder and a plastic card. Black and white with a red teardrop in the center, it looked like a credit card but had no writing to identify it.

  Danny shoved the box into his jacket pocket and was pushing the board back in place when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He spun around to face a woman who scowled at him from the doorway. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a braid, though wisps had escaped to curl around her pale face, and her deep-green eyes reminded him of a forest pool.

  She leaned against the doorjamb. “What are you doing here?”

  He flashed her a smile and realized he was way out of practice. “Are you a cop?”

  “I can call a cop. Who are you?”

  “A friend of Michael’s.”

  “Funny. I’m a friend of Michael’s, and I never met you.”

  He took a step toward her and held out his hand. “Danny Ryan. Michael and I worked together.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re Danny Ryan?”

  Normally, he would have had some kind of snappy comeback, but his repertoire was limited these days. He dropped his hand.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that quite the way it came out. Kate Reid. You just look so different from the paper.”

  “I’ve lost some weight.” He forced a laugh and thought he sounded a little insane. Why yes, I’ve had a fucking mental collapse. He tried to picture her with Michael but couldn’t. “You dated Michael?”

  She
gave him a tentative smile. “No. We were friends.”

  “Are you a writer?”

  “I’m a legislative aide. In fact, I believe you know my boss.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Senator Robert Harlan. He’s here today. You should come say hello.”

  Jesus, she just got better and better. Danny didn’t know how much of his loathing showed. He was good at keeping a poker face under normal circumstances, but his former father-in-law stretched his limits.

  Big Bob Harlan. He’d gotten miles of column inches out of the senator. A mutual hate society.

  When they’d first married, Beth had taken great delight in the fact that someone finally stood up to her father. By the end, she would read Danny’s column, hurl the Sunday paper at him, and say, “Danny, please. Give it a rest just once, would you? He’s my father, for God’s sake. I have to deal with him.”

  He told himself he had too often given it a rest when he and Beth had married and he’d caught a glimpse of that other world, the one rumored to exist behind the doors of gated estates and clubs shrouded in exclusive secrecy. When he’d attacked her father in print, Danny had never used anything he’d learned in those rooms. Beth had looked at it differently. She’d believed he betrayed her. It would always haunt him.

  “Excuse me?” Kate looked at him a little oddly. “Are you all right?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I’m sorry.” He’d lost track of the conversation.

  Kate gestured toward the closet. “What were you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Michael was coming to see me the night he was killed. I guess I feel responsible.”

  Her eyes narrowed like she was trying to decide whether or not he was hustling her. At last she fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “I don’t know everything Michael was into, but if I can help, give me a call.”

  “That’s very nice of you.” He knew he sounded snarky. “Why did you come here anyway? Did the senator send you?”

  “I told you. Michael and I were friends.”

  “So you did.”

  “As far as I know, he was doing a piece on Philly nightlife. Clubs, restaurants.”

  Danny touched the box in his pocket. Michael was working on something more than restaurant reviews, something that most definitely could have gotten him killed. “He didn’t say anything to you? If you were friends, that’s hard to believe.”

  “If you were friends with Michael, you know how secretive he could be.” She was annoyed now. The color rose on her cheeks. “Michael also said you could be a real prick.”

  “No, he didn’t. You did.” Danny shrugged. “You’re right too. Look, I need to get back.”

  Kate blew out a breath. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  He started past her, then paused. Something about her face seemed slightly askew, as if the skin were pulled a little too tight or she’d undergone extensive cosmetic surgery—much more than a nose job. Weird. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-six or so.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Christ, he felt like an asshole. “It was nice meeting you.”

  She tucked her card into his breast pocket, and the faint aroma of lavender and vanilla reached out to him and drew him a step closer. For a moment, she stood with her hand resting on his lapel, and he wanted to lay his hand on top of hers but could only stand frozen, lost inside her gaze. The ghosts in her eyes. The secrets and sorrows. Whoever she was now, Kate Reid had led a different life once. He could almost see the outline of another woman just under her skin. It was her business if she wanted to run away from her old life, not his, but it made him curious.

  Her mouth curved into a tiny smile. “Give me a call. I’m not so bad once you get to know me, and I might be useful. You never know.”

  6

  Dark all around. Cold concrete beneath his knees. Justin’s hands were chained above his head. This wasn’t the dungeon, was it? Not the dungeon.

  The door opened. Light snapped on, blinding him for a second. Then the thin, blond man appeared. He was nightmare in a green leather tunic, tights, and weird booties; sparkling green covered his shallow eyelids, and black rimmed his eyes.

  “Poor Justin,” the blond man said. “Do you know who I am? I’m Mason. I’ve come to set you free.”

  He slid his hands down Justin’s cheeks, his fingers long, white, and smooth like they didn’t have knuckles. Justin wanted to puke. Nobody kept you chained up naked if they were going to set you free, especially not freaks like this.

  “But you aren’t a very nice little boy, are you? Turning tricks is such a nasty business. I’m afraid Congressman Powell is tired of you.”

  Who the fuck was Congressman Powell? No one used names at the club. It was just sex. Baggy old men. Sometimes a young guy with tight abs. Sometimes a woman with plastic boobs. Sometimes all three. The bodies blended together.

  Who gave a shit about them? The needle made them disappear—for a while, anyway. The needle made everything disappear.

  Then he remembered the guy in the red silk mask, a regular. The one with the little piggy eyes and sagging girl tits. He wore the feathered, silk G-string and liked the really kinky shit. His mask had come off the other night.

  Justin bit into his tongue.

  “You’re young, aren’t you?” Mason cooed. “How old are you, darling?”

  He tried to speak, but no sound came from his dry throat.

  “You remind me of someone, you know. He has blue eyes, too.” Mason leaned close, pushed his fingers through Justin’s hair. “Such lovely eyes. You’ve seen too much, my pet.”

  Mason snapped his fingers, and Justin heard the familiar opening guitar riff of a metal song. It was old shit, but it used to be one of his favorites because the video was so badass.

  “Do you like this song, Justin?”

  Justin nodded. He tasted blood in his mouth.

  “Normally, I prefer Ravel, but this is a special evening. Do you like the fairies?”

  Justin didn’t know the answer, and his eyes stung with tears. Stuff like this didn’t happen in real life. It was a video on some creepy horror channel. But it wasn’t. He was in some dark place where prayers wouldn’t help.

  Mason spread out his arms and threw back his head. He stood for a moment with his eyes shut, then turned to the table beside him. Justin saw the flash of something metallic.

  “I’m the Sandman,” Mason said.

  “Please.” Justin managed to croak out the word.

  Mason’s breath caressed his neck. “Don’t be afraid, Justin. Tonight, we’re off to Never Never Land.”

  7

  Two fat pigeons sat on the stone wall, their feathers ruffling in the wind. Congressman Teddy Powell had the sensation they were watching him. Stupid. He shook off the feeling and handed his ticket to the valet.

  Weird to have valet parking at a wake, though you’d hardly call this a wake. Michael Cohen was already buried.

  Shiva. Jews had some funny rituals. Like covering the mirrors. What was with that?

  He wouldn’t have come today, except he had to pay his respects. Andy Cohen would go through the guest book and note who came and who didn’t, even though he’d treated that kid of his like a retard.

  He’d seen that fucking Alex Burton. Goddamn bitch reporter. He’d like to wring her neck. Then to top it off, Danny Ryan showed up. If anyone deserved a run of bad luck, it was that sanctimonious prick. Teddy wasn’t sure what he hated more: the phony-defender-of-the-little-guy bullshit or the watch-out-for-the-political-weasel screeds Ryan used to write. He looked like hell now. He must’ve lost close to twenty pounds, and it wasn’t like he was a big guy to start. Maybe he’d lose so much weight, he’d just disappear.

  The valet delivered his Caddy, and Teddy got in. He wondered if the asshole expected a tip. Fuck him, if he did. Who tipped at a wake?

  He pulled around the circular drive toward the gates, and one of the pigeons took off.
The bird flew low and swooped in right front of him. Teddy slammed his brakes.

  Goddamn birds. Teddy saw the valet smirking in his rearview mirror. He hit the gas pedal and roared out into the street.

  Teddy bounced over the cobblestones of Germantown Avenue, then cut back through Mt. Airy to get to Lincoln Drive. He loved the Drive, especially when there wasn’t much traffic, like this evening. It was like a giant serpent twisting and turning alongside Wissahickon Creek.

  Maybe he wouldn’t go home just yet. He could stop in town for a drink or two. His wife didn’t care. She had her career as Mrs. Congressman.

  He wanted to go to the club, but they’d cut him off from the special rooms since the incident with that kid. Assholes. As if they cared about a fifteen-year-old street whore.

  He was a sweet boy, though. Justin. The best he’d ever had.

  Red light.

  Whoa, he almost went right through the intersection. Brakes felt a little sluggish, or maybe he hadn’t been paying attention. Long day.

  A black Porsche pulled beside him, and Teddy was tempted to roll down his window to hear the low purr of its idling engine. Before the light changed, the driver glanced at him and grinned. He inclined his head and pointed forward, and the Porsche leaped ahead. Furious, Teddy pounded the accelerator.

  The speedometer inched up close to sixty. A little too fast, but he didn’t care as he flew past trees and houses. Still, the rear lights of the Porsche pushed farther ahead. Goddamn it. A warning light glowed on the control panel, but Teddy kept his eyes on the Porsche.

  The traffic light was changing from yellow to red, and Teddy floored the gas. The Caddy lifted slightly from the road. Damn, he was just like Steve McQueen in Bullitt. Too fucking cool.

  The road made a sharp curve to the right just before the Henry Avenue Bridge. Dammit, he forgot this curve. The Porsche slid through it easily, but something was wrong with his goddamn wheels. The back end spun out, and Teddy slammed the brakes. Nothing.

  The rear end smashed into the guardrail. Teddy cranked the wheel, and the car careened sideways and then went airborne, rolling down toward the creek. He could hear his father talking about the Romans and how they’d built arches. He could see Justin, that pretty young face, those wide, blue eyes. The kid could have been a model. He probably hadn’t even recognized Teddy; his mask had only slipped for a second and—Christ, he was going to die under the suicide bridge. Why?