Dead Cold Mystery Box Set 1

by Blake Banner

  I pulled out my badge and showed it to him. “Detective Stone of the NYPD.”

  “You’re off your turf, NYPD. Why don’t you get back in your pretty, foreign car and get the fuck off my land?”

  I sighed. Originality was clearly something I was not going to find at the Hellfire Club. “Because if I do, then I’ll have to come back with a warrant, the FBI, and guns. And all I want to do is to ask you a few questions about an investigation that probably has nothing to do with you in the first place. I’m getting wet out here. Why don’t you invite me in, give me a cup of java, and I’ll be gone in fifteen minutes?”

  He smiled a smile that he probably intended to be cruel, but I was too wet to care. He said, “Sure, why not?” turned, and walked back into the house. I climbed the stairs after him. Over the door there was a carving of two elaborate devils holding a scroll on which was written Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate. Abandon all hope ye who enter here. Nice.

  He was standing in the shadows inside the house. As I stepped over the threshold, he pulled a cigarette from a pack and lit it with an old brass Zippo. The walls were covered with erotic murals. Some were psychedelic, evocative of the ’60s. Others were impressionistic. Some were even good.

  There was a huge face of Crowley done in red and black, like the famous picture of Che. Written underneath it in flowing, gold script was Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.

  Zak dropped into an old leather sofa and pointed to a chair. I sat, wiping water from my face and my hair. Zak gave a shrill whistle, and a girl of maybe twenty, with hollow eyes and a stud in her lip, came in in bare feet. She looked sad. Zak pointed at me and said, “Bring the cop a towel.” She hurried away at a little run. He smiled at me. “She’s an acolyte.”

  She came running back a couple of minutes later with a big, fluffy towel and handed it to me with a small bow. I took the towel and said, “Don’t ever bow to me. Have some self-respect. Don’t ever bow to anybody, unless they’re bowing back.”

  Zak said, “Go.” She left. “What do you want to ask me, Detective Stone?”

  “I want to know about your big Christmas get-together in 2005, in Connecticut, near Holmes. You remember that?”

  His face was empty. He just smoked and stared at me. Eventually he said, “What’s to remember? That was twelve years ago. We spent four days stoned, high and drunk.”

  “I’m trying to trace two people whom I believe were at that rally. I think you had close ties to them.”

  “All bros have close ties, man.”

  “One was your best friend. The other was your girlfriend.”

  He laughed. “Girlfriend? What, were we dating? Or just fucking and getting stoned together?”

  I listened to the rain for a bit while he finished wheezing his laugh. When he was done, he said, “I don’t know what to tell you, man. I fucked a lot of chicks. I can’t remember all the ones I fucked in 2005.”

  “Her name was Lynda.”

  He shrugged.

  “How about your best friend? Or don’t you have them either? Do you just fuck them too?”

  It was a curious thing to watch. His expression stayed the same, but the smile drained out of it, turning it into an ugly, dangerous mask. His voice was quiet.

  “I don’t fuck guys, Detective Stone. Sometimes I fuck them up, bad, but I don’t just plain fuck them. What was this guy’s name?”

  “Hank. You remember Hank?”

  “Yeah. I remember Hank.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “No. I ain’t seen Hank since that rally in 2005.”

  “How about Lynda?”

  Any trace of a smile had left his face. “I already told you, I don’t remember any Lynda.”

  “You remember Hank, but you don’t remember Lynda. I find that kind of hard to believe.”

  “I think you had better leave now, Detective Stone. It’s going to be getting dark soon, and these roads can be real dangerous at night.”

  I sat forward. Somewhere in the house, the wind made a door creak. A squall of rain lashed the window. “You see, Zak, I know that you remember Lynda. So I have to ask myself, what is it that’s making you pretend that you don’t? What makes you want to hide your relationship to Lynda from the cops so bad that you would actually threaten that cop’s life? And it is that kind of question that is going to have me and a dozen Feds swarming all over your house like flies on shit. I wonder what we’re going to find? Besides the coke and the meth, do you think we’ll find any body parts?”

  He held up both hands and shouted, “Woah! Take it easy, Mr. NYPD. There ain’t nobody threatening nobody here. And there ain’t no fucking bodies buried in my garden. Take it easy. Chill.”

  “Chill? Next time you threaten me with violence, Zak, you better be prepared to make good on your threat, because I am going to whip your sorry ass all the way back to New York, where I will throw you into Rikers and watch you rot there for the rest of your miserable life. And believe me, there will be no law of Thelema there.”

  “Okay—it was just talk. Take it easy.”

  “Tell me about Hank and Lynda.”

  He flopped back his head and closed his eyes like I was boring him. “Hank was a bro. He had a chick, and she was cute, hot, you know?” He looked at me, like he was actually asking me if I knew what a hot chick was. “But Hank was soft. He cared. You can’t care in life. It doesn’t work that way. He was always talking about bros, and loyalty, and being there for each other…” He laughed again. “Man… and he was all dewy-eyed and going to pieces over this bitch. So I tried to help him.”

  “Help him? How?”

  “I told him, let’s fuck the bitch together. Lose your respect for her, man. Treat her like the piece of trash she is. You let a woman get inside you and you are fucked. I mean, you do not fuck them, they fuck you and they fuck you bad. I have seen many a bro go down because he went soft over a chick.”

  “So did he agree?”

  “No, man. He got mad. Which proves what I am telling you. Women are evil. They are like poison. They are there to serve us and bring us to manhood, nothing more. You start treating them with respect, they fucking eat you alive. Like the man said, if you’re going to women, don’t forget the whip.”

  “Spare me your philosophy, Zak. What happened?”

  “Nothing. I tried to make him see sense. She was fucking all over me. He gave her a choice, him or me. She made the wrong fucking choice. She chose me. That’s women, man. Fucking stupid. He left. I never heard from him again. Somebody told me he went out west.”

  “What about Lynda?”

  “I fucked her, used her for a day or two, and told her to get lost. It was what she deserved. It was a shame about Hank. He was stupid, but he was a bro. He couldn’t see I was trying to help him.”

  “Yeah. You’re a stand-up guy.”

  He surprised me by giggling.

  “Where did she go?”

  “The party broke up on the fourth day. She probably got a ride with somebody. I don’t know, man.”

  I looked at the murals on the wall, stared at Crowley’s big, bald head with his bulging eyes. “You’re a devotee of Crowley, huh?”

  He smiled. “He’s the man.”

  “You practice his rituals?”

  He watched me for a bit before answering. “Some.”

  It was growing dark outside. The rain had settled into a steady downpour. I stood. “He died in poverty, in a boarding house in Brighton, you know.”

  “Yeah, and his followers are some of the richest, most powerful men in the world.”

  There was a heavy footfall on the stairs. A large man with long hair and a long beard stepped into the room. It was hard to make out his features in the dusk. He stared at me for a long moment, then turned to Zak. “They’re ready.”

  Zak smiled at me. “We’re having a ritual, Detective Stone. We found a virgin, and we’re going to cut out her heart and eat it while it’s still quivering with life. Y
ou want to stay and join in?”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Drive careful, Stone.”

  I stepped back out into the wet dusk and ran to my car. I climbed in and slammed the door. I had a pack of tissues in the glove compartment and used a couple to dry my hair and my face. I switched on the wipers and looked through the windshield at the house. The windows on the third floor were glowing with a flickering, limpid orange light. Candles.

  I looked at my watch. Four p.m. I fired up the engine and headed back toward New York. I felt tired, but I knew it would be at least ten before I got home.

  Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.

  I thought about that as I crawled through the narrow lanes toward Raymond. The orange cones of my headlights made a moving tunnel in the blackness. It was Rabelais, not Crowley, and it was inscribed over the great gate of Theleme. More things crept into my memory.

  Sir Francis Dashwood, in the eighteenth century, established several Hellfire Clubs in London and Dublin. Their motto was “Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,” borrowed from Rabelais. Ben Franklin had been an occasional visitor to those clubs. The patrons were eminent and powerful.

  Then, a hundred years later, Aleister Crowley established the Abbey of Thelema on Cefalù, on the north coast of Sicily, and adopted the motto used by Dashwood for his clubs. He called it the law of Thelema.

  Ritual magic. Ritual murder. It was certainly the province of the serial killer. I tried to visualize Zak murdering and dismembering a woman. It wasn’t difficult. Did those arms, then, belong to Lynda?

  SIX

  In the end I got home at one, had a hot shower, and fell into bed. I’d been driving for over twelve hours, and every part of me ached. I ached in places I didn’t even know I had.

  I had dark dreams about dark houses with black doorways that led to even blacker places, down ever darker narrower passages. I surfaced slowly as it dawned on me that the doorbell was buzzing, dragging me out of sleep. I didn’t know if I was grateful or not. It was still dark, I still ached, and I was still tired. I looked at my watch. It was seven. I groaned and leaned out the window.

  Dehan was standing in front of my door doing a weird bouncing thing.

  “Why are you bouncing?”

  She looked up at me. A cold wind was blowing her hair across her face. “Because it’s cold and wet. Let me in. Why are you still in your pajamas?”

  I pulled my keys out of my pants on the chair and threw them down to her. “Make some coffee and don’t ask dumb-ass questions.”

  I showered cold, hot, cold, dressed, and went downstairs. She’d made a big pot of coffee and also pancakes and bacon.

  “If my mother were here, she’d tell me to marry you.”

  “If my dad were here, he’d tell me to stay clear of you. ‘Don’t make the same mistake I made. Marry a nice Jewish boy.’”

  I sat down and she poured coffee and put bacon on my plate.

  “You told me your parents were crazy about each other.”

  “They were. He loved annoying her, and she loved being annoyed by him. She’d end up throwing her havayanas at him, and they’d crack up laughing.”

  “Cute.”

  “It was. How’d you get on?”

  “This means you’re itching to tell me how you got on.”

  “You first.”

  I ran through my conversation with Zak. About halfway through, she stopped eating and just stared at me. By the time I came to the whole Aleister Crowley, Abbey of Thelema bit, she was neglecting her coffee. I told her what I saw when I left and said, “He definitely ticks some of the boxes.”

  She drizzled maple syrup on a pancake. “So he’s mad at Lynda. He thinks it’s her fault his best pal walked out on him. He takes her away somewhere. They do some kind of crazy, satanic ritual. He kills her and takes the arms to what he thinks is Hank’s lockup. The arms are a crazy symbol of sorts. Brothers-in-arms. Arms of friendship. Whatever. But he makes a mistake and puts them in the wrong lockup. Not a serial killer, but a crazy.”

  “Something like that is a distinct possibility. What about you?”

  She grabbed her hair and tied it in a big knot behind her neck. It was a very feminine action that was strangely at odds with the image she usually cultivated.

  “I met Dave—David Hansen. He’s the overall sales manager of Global Computer Sales. Twelve years ago, he was what I guess you’d call a shipping clerk. The company operates mainly online selling refurbished computers, hardware, and software. You buy it online from their website, they ship it to you.”

  “That’s why they need the lockups—to store the computers.”

  She nodded. Thunder rolled in the distance. There was a steady slapping sound from water spilling from a gutter in the garden.

  “The guy has an eidetic memory. He remembered the case. He was there that Monday, collecting some computers. He remembered the cops asking him a few questions, but he had nothing to tell them except that he owned the units opposite.”

  “So…?”

  “So I remembered some details of the general profile you described, of the organized killer. Dave told me he followed the case in the papers and on the news for the next few days and was disappointed when it just fizzled out and no arrests were made. I asked him if he knew who the lockup belonged to. He said he had met him briefly and sold him some computers. The guy has a real problem with interpersonal skills, especially with women. Zero eye contact, speaks real quiet, like he’s talking through clenched teeth, and I get the impression he is pretty OCD. His office and his desk were not just neat. Everything was regimented and organized according to shape, size, and color.”

  “It’s not much to go on.”

  “I’m not done. I asked him where he was that weekend, the third and fourth. He said he was away at an IT conference in Los Angeles. He’s a computer nerd and attends conferences on a regular basis. He lives with his mother. There’s more…”

  “Okay.”

  “I decided to do a background check to see if he had any priors.”

  “He has?”

  “He’s been arrested on three occasions for downloading child pornography. On each occasion he denied it and was released because they couldn’t find the material on any of his computers.”

  I slumped back in my chair. “Nero Wolfe had too many clients, and we have too many suspects. Though child pornography does not of itself suggest he’s a serial killer.”

  She shook her head. “I know that. But it is a coincidence that he displays a number of the characteristics often displayed by serial killers, and his company owns the units opposite Peter’s.”

  “Yes.”

  I stood and started clearing the plates while she tipped her mug this way and that, watching the cold coffee stay on a level plane from every angle. I started washing.

  “We have Peter. Evidence against him, such as it is, is that he displays misogynistic behavior toward his wife, he owns the lockup where the arms were found, and twelve years ago he had a job that would have enabled him to commit murders in several states. Not a lot, really.”

  She stood, grabbed a tea towel, and started drying what I had washed. “Hank had a girlfriend who might fit the description of the owner of the arms. Had the unit next to Peter’s and has a rap sheet including violence against women. His girlfriend may have gone missing at the time the arms showed up.”

  I handed her a wet plate. “We need to get on to that. We need to find where Lynda is. That is a job for today.” I continued where she had left off. “Zak. Crazy as a box of frogs knitting wool bikinis. A disciple of Aleister Crowley, a Hell’s Angel, so no stranger to violence, a self-declared misogynist with a possible serious grudge against Lynda.”

  I noticed absently that she had put everything away in the right place. As she closed the cupboard where she had placed the plate, she rounded off, “Dave, nerd supreme, OCD, lives with his mother, his company owns all the units opposite Peter’s, he is and was at the ti
me of the murder frequently away at IT conferences. He turned up on the morning the arms were found, followed the case with interest, and was, quote, ‘disappointed that it fizzled out.’”

  “We need to check on that conference.”

  “I did. It was real, but there was no way to check if he was there.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment, holding each other’s eye. It was something we had got into the habit of doing. Finally, she said, “So what now, boss man?”

  “Our number one priority right now is to establish whether the arms belong to Lynda, whether Lynda is dead or alive. So I want you on that right away.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to check missing persons for twelve years ago, plus a year either side, girls in their early twenties, pretty, blonde. I’m also going to check for reports of dismembered bodies, coast to coast.”

  As it was, I didn’t get very far. We got to the precinct at eight thirty, and at ten fifteen Dehan put down the phone and said, “I found her parents.”

  “Already?”

  “Holly isn’t a very common name. I used the phone book, just the way you taught me, Sensei.” She stood, slipping her arms into her jacket. “And you know what? That paper…” She inhaled noisily through her nose, closing her eyes and smiling. “Mmmmm… the smell was just intoxicating!” I sat watching her, wanting to laugh. She said, “You coming, or you just going to sit there and smirk all day?”

  SEVEN

  It was a ten-minute drive through the hiss and spray of the I-278 and then Bruckner Boulevard. And at ten thirty-five, we pulled up in front of a modern red brick on Throgmorton street. It was pretty and leafy, or would have been if there had been any leaves on the trees. I killed the engine, then we climbed out and crossed the wet blacktop to climb the steps to the front door.

  Dehan rang the bell and stood looking at me with flushed cheeks from the cold wind. Her hands were plunged in her pockets, and she was bouncing on her toes.

  “I love this weather,” she said. I shook my head, and she said, “No, seriously. It’s honest, real.”