When Jack first came to the city, this area had deserved its name—beef hindquarters and pig carcasses hanging in doorways, burly, cleaver-toting butchers in blood-stained white aprons hustling in and out, back and forth. A different kind of hustle at night: curb clingers in hot pants and microminis—not all of them women—hawking their wares to passing cars.
Creeping gentrification had wrought its predictable changes. Most of the butchers were gone now, replaced by art galleries and trendoid restaurants. He passed Hogs and Heifers, the inspiration for the bar in Coyote Ugly, a charter member of Jack's Worst Movies of All Time Club.
Johnny kept walking west. What was he going to do, jump in the Hudson?
The light was fading, the wind picked up enough to make people turn up their collars. Not the skateboarders, though. Dressed in nothing more than the de rigueur baggy shorts, T-shirt, and backward baseball cap, a bunch of them were doing kickflips and railslides as Jack passed.
Eventually Johnny stopped outside a bar called The Header on the ground floor of a ramshackle building in the far, far West Village. If it called itself a dive, it would be putting on airs. The dozen or so motorcycles lined up out front left little doubt as to the nature of the preferred clientele. A neon Budweiser sign glowed in one of the two tiny windows; a handwritten placard announcing FOOD was taped in the other.
Food? Dinner at The Header… now there was a thought. Tonight's special: ebola quiche.
But Johnny didn't enter the bar. Instead he keyed open a narrow door around the side from the entrance and disappeared inside. A minute or so later Jack saw a third-floor window light up.
He didn't get it. Why a third-floor walk-up over a biker bar? According to his mother the guy was worth millions.
Maybe he'd given it all to the Dormentalists. Or maybe he still had it but had decided to live in poverty. Jack tried to care, but failed. No explaining cult members. Waste of time to try.
And anyway, his job wasn't to make sense of Johnny Roselli, it was to give him a message from his mother. The easiest way would be to knock on his door and tell him, but he didn't like the idea of letting Johnny see his face.
Why not? After delivering the message to call Mama, Jack's job was done. If he were sticking with the Jason Amurri identity, yeah, it would matter: He wouldn't want to risk Johnny spotting him and opening his yap. But Jack had no intention of ever setting foot in the temple again…
Or did he?
He had a feeling he had unfinished business there… business involving Brady's globe.
Jack noted the number on the door, then turned and headed east at a comfortable pace. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed information. They had no listing for a J. Roselli at that address.
Damn. He stopped walking. He might have to show his face after all.
On a sudden whim he called back and asked for a party named "Oroont" at that address. Bull's-eye.
He smiled and said aloud, "Am I good or am I good?"
He let the operator dial for him and a few seconds later he was listening to a phone ring, A man answered.
"Is this John Roselli?"
The tone was guarded. "It was. How did you get this number?"
"Not important. I have a message from your mother. She—"
"You what? Who are you?"
"Someone your mother hired to find you. She's been worried about you and—"
"Listen, you son of a bitch," Roselli gritted, and Jack could all but feel the steam coming through the phone. "Who put you up to this? The GP? Are you one of Jensen's drones trying to trap me?"
"No, I'm simply—"
"Or some dirty WA trying to harass me?"
Be nice if I could finish a sentence.
"Not even close. Look, just call your mother. She's worried and wants to hear from you."
"Fuck you!"
And then the phone slammed down.
Jack tried three more times. On the first he heard the receiver lift, then clatter down again. After that all he got was a busy signal.
Okay. He'd done his job, delivered the message. Johnny apparently had big issues with Mom. Jack was sorry about that but his fix-it skills—thankfully—did not reach into family therapy.
As he kept walking east, heading for Eighth Avenue where he could catch a train, Brady's globe spun into his thoughts again… the red and white lights… the network of crisscrossing lines… so tantalizingly close… he reached for it, stretching…
And then Jack grasped it. But when he realized what he had hit on he instantly wished he hadn't. He stumbled as he felt the world slow around him.
The lights and the lines… he'd seen that pattern before… and now he knew where…
Suddenly out of breath, he stopped walking and leaned against a railing. He wasn't going to be sick, but he wanted to be.
When his heart and lungs dropped back toward their normal tempos, he pushed off and got moving again. He'd planned to stop by Maria Roselli's to tell her he'd contacted Johnny boy, and then drop in on Gia and Vicky to see how his girls were doing. But all that was out of the question now. He needed answers, needed to find someone who might have an explanation.
He could think of only one person.
8
Jamie had been working late—as usual—when Robertson called. His voice had sounded tight and he'd said he needed to talk to her. Now. Something had come up—something big and very strange.
Well, she'd been ready to leave anyway. After she assured him that the line had been checked for taps, he said he'd pick her up in his car, a big, black Crown Victoria. When she'd reminded him about her Dementedist shadows, he told her where to meet him and exactly how to get there.
So here she was at 8:15 walking west through the Forty-second Street tunnel. One of the Dementedist shadows was following her, laying back about fifty feet or so. Where was the other? They usually had a crew of two waiting outside The Light. It bothered her that she didn't know where he was.
Jamie was puffing by the time she reached the Eighth Avenue station. Damn those cigarettes. Had to quit some day.
Instead of heading for one of the train platforms, she rushed up the steps to the street.
Now she was really breathing hard. She spotted a big black car idling at the corner. That had to be Robertson, but he'd told her to wait until he gave a signal. Why? She didn't want to wait with one of those nutcases coming up behind her. She wanted in that car now.
Suddenly the passenger door flew open and his voice called from within.
"Let's go!"
Jamie didn't need to hear that twice. She trotted over and jumped in. The car was roaring up Eighth Avenue before she closed the door.
"We've got to stop meeting like this, Robertson."
Light from passing street lamps flashed against his face. His features looked tight, tense.
"Call me Jack, remember?"
"Oh, right. Hey, tell me, why did you want me to wait by the top of the steps instead of just jumping in and going?"
"I wanted the traffic lights the right color. Not much point in burning rubber just to stop a block away. Now they'll have to find a cab before they can come after us. And they're not going to find us when they do."
"Not they—he. Only one tonight. But he probably got a look at your license plate."
The line of his mouth tightened further. "Might have got a look at more than that. While I was waiting for you a guy I'd seen in Jensen's office when I was getting my Entry Card came out of a deli carrying a paper bag. Coffee and sandwiches, probably. Walked right past the car."
"Think he saw you?"
"Looked at me but didn't seem to recognize me."
"Oh, hell. If they've got your plate numbers—"
He smiled, but even that was tight. "Won't do them much good. And they're in for a pile of trouble if they start hassling the real owner of these tags."
"So this is a borrowed car?"
"No, it's mine, but the plates are duplicates of someone else's. Someone you don't want
to mess with."
"Who?"
He shook his head. "Trade secret."
That again. But he'd piqued her curiosity. "Would I have heard of him?"
"As a reporter? Oh, yeah."
The way he drew out the oh was enough to make her crazy. Who was he talking about? But she sensed that asking again would be like talking to a statue.
He took a left onto Fifty-seventh and headed farther west.
"Where are we going?"
"We need someplace quiet and private. Any ideas?"
"We're only a few blocks from my place but I think it's got a surveillance situation."
"Wouldn't be surprised, but let's go check it out anyway."
She directed him to her block on West Sixty-eighth.
She pointed right to the front door of her apartment building. "That's me."
Jack jerked a thumb toward his side window. "And there's the Dormen-talist stakeout team."
Jamie saw a dark coupe, parked curbside, no lights on inside or out. A man sat alone in the front seat. Her stomach crawled.
"Let's get out of here."
9
Jensen was on his way out of the temple when his two-way chirped. It was Margiotta.
"Finally found a picture of him, boss."
"Amurri?"
"Yeah. You'd better come see. I don't think you're going to like it."
"Be right there."
On the contrary, Jensen thought as he did an about face and headed back across the nearly deserted lobby. I bet I'll like it just fine.
Margiotta's tone had said it all: The photo he'd found did not match the guy who'd been calling himself Jason Amurri.
He did a mini fist pump. Knew it!
His instincts had been right on target. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his powers of observation, and for plain old gut instinct. He'd spotted Amurri for a ringer from day one.
And now we've got him.
Another chirp from his two-way. Margiotta again.
"Here's something else you won't like, Boss. Lewis and Hutchison just called in. They lost the quail."
Margiotta knew better than to mention names on a two-way. He didn't have to. Jensen knew who he meant.
Noomri's balls! How hard can it be to follow one middle-aged, overweight broad?
"They give any details?"
"No, but they have more to tell. They're waiting till they get here. They should be walking in any minute."
Jensen considered waiting and holding the elevator for them, then giving them hell once the doors closed. He decided not to. He couldn't wait to see the face of the real Jason Amurri.
Margiotta sat in the office, seated before the computer. He leaned back and pointed to the screen.
"There he is."
Jensen leaned in and saw a blurry image of a man in his thirties. He ran a mental comparison and couldn't find one point of correspondence between this man and the one who claimed to be Jason Amurri. Darker hair, darker skin, bigger nose, different hairline…
"You sure this is the real Jason Amurri?"
Margiotta shrugged. "It says it's him, but that doesn't mean it is."
"What do you mean? I thought you said—"
"This is the Internet, boss. What you see ain't necessarily the real deal. Anybody can post anything, true or false. No one fact checks the Internet."
"But can you think of a reason why anyone would go to the trouble of posting a fake photo of Jason Amurri?"
"I can think that a fake Jason Amurri might, just in case we checked. If it looked just like him, I'd check when it was posted. And if it was of real recent vintage, I'd say we couldn't trust it. But this is a couple years old and doesn't look at all like our guy. So I'm ninety-nine percent sure it's legit."
"What would make you a hundred?"
"Finding another with the same face."
"Okay, then. Keep looking. I want to be absolutely sure before I take this to the SO. But for now, put a flag on his pass code. Next time he swipes his way in, I want him detained at the security desk."
Lewis and Hutchison walked in then. Jensen was opening his mouth to begin charbroiling them when Lewis held up one of his skinny hands.
"Yeah, I know, we lost her, but we didn't come back empty-handed."
"It had better be good."
The heavier Hutchison told about tailing her underground and then losing her to a waiting car.
Jensen had to admire the ditch: sweet and simple.
"You are going to tell me you got the tag number, right?"
Hutchison nodded and handed over a sheet of paper. Jensen glanced at it. New York plates. Excellent. A number of Dormentalists worked for the New York DMV.
He passed the sheet to Margiotta. "Run it." He turned back to Hutchison and Lewis. "That still doesn't save your asses. I put you on—"
"There's more," Lewis said. "Just out of pure coincidence, I walked by the car just minutes before Grant jumped in and took off. I saw the driver. Thought he looked familiar but didn't pay much attention. After Grant gave us the slip it clicked and I remembered where I'd seen him before."
"Yeah? Where?"
"Right here. He's that guy the SO's been doting on. What's his name? Am-something."
"Amurri." Jensen felt a huge smile spreading across his face. "Jason Amurri." He turned to Margiotta again. "But he's not Jason Amurri, is he."
"If he's working with Grant, I think we can go a hundred percent on that, no problem."
Jensen rubbed his hands together. "We know who he's not. And before the night is out we'll know who he is."
10
"So," Jamie said. "What's the situation? Why the big rush to see me tonight? I assume it wasn't because of my great looks and sparkling personality."
Jack wore a blue V-neck sweater over a T-shirt and jeans and looked good as he gave her a wan smile.
"You never know."
Right answer, she thought.
After passing her place they'd stayed on the West Side, heading downtown. Jack found a lot in the Forties, in what used to be called Hell's Kitchen, and Jamie noticed how he gave the attendant an extra couple of bucks to park his car where it wasn't visible from the street. Attention to detail—she liked that in a man. There was a lot to like about this fellow.
A short walk brought them to this little bar off Tenth Avenue. She'd already forgotten its name. Dusty and dingy, but only a quarter full, which gave them some space in a rear booth.
With half of a Dewar's and soda making its way through her system, she felt herself begin to relax. But only a little. One thing to suspect your home is being watched; something totally other to spot the guy doing the watching.
"I saw the globe today," Jack said. His bar draft sat before him, untouched.
"Brady's globe?"
He nodded. "Got a good, long look."
If true, it was a hell of a coup. But he didn't sound too happy about it.
"And?"
"Something about the lights and all the crisscrossing lines set my teeth on edge. Didn't know why, but just looking at it struck a sour note. Took me a while to realize that the pattern was familiar. Took me a little longer to remember where I'd seen it before."
"Great! So then you know what it's all about."
He shook his head. "Still don't know that. But I'll show you where I saw it."
He lifted the small plastic shopping bag that had been sitting beside him on the bench. He'd removed it from the car's back seat when they'd parked, but had only shaken his head when she'd asked what was in it.
He pushed his beer aside and laid the bag on the wet ring it left on the table. Then he sat quietly, staring at it.
Jamie felt a rising impatience. What was all the drama here?
"Well?"
"You're not going to believe what I'm going to tell you," he said without looking up. "Sometimes I don't believe it myself, but then I look at this and know it's real."
Sounds like the opening line to a bad horror story, she thought.
/>
"Try me."
"Okay." He reached into the bag and brought out a quarter-folded piece of thick beige fabric, maybe a foot long and a little less wide. As he began to unfold it she realized it was some sort of leather. He flattened it on the table-top between them.
Jamie leaned forward for a better look. She saw a slightly rough surface, dimpled with pockmarks of varying sizes. The larger were a dull, dusky red, the smaller pale and slightly glossy. Connecting them all were a hundred, maybe more, fine lines, mechanical-pencil thin.
"This is what's on the globe?"
Jack nodded. "The reason it took me so long to recognize it was because the pattern was wrapped around a sphere. Even though it was rotating, I never saw the whole design at once. I mean, I would have recognized it if this"—he tapped the design—"included outlines of the oceans and continents, but as you can see, it doesn't. Still it rang a bell somewhere in my head. Took me most of the day to make the connection."
"Okay, so this is the same pattern of lights and lines as on the globe. What's so unbelievable about that?"
"That's not the unbelievable part."
"All right then, what is?"
Jack didn't answer. He simply stared at the leather and gently ran a hand over its surface.
Jamie took another sip of her Scotch. She was getting annoyed.
Her turn to tap the leather. Hmmm… soft. She let her hand rest on it, placing a fingertip in one of the pocks.
"Does this thing get us any closer to figuring out why he keeps the globe situation so secret?"
"No, but—"
"Then what's the point? Where'd you find it? Maybe there's a clue in that. If Brady didn't make this then someone connected to him did. If we can talk to him—"
"She's dead."
She? Dead? Jamie felt her chest tighten.
"How? Tell me she died of a heart attack or something. Please don't tell me she was murdered."
"Wish I could. This is all that's left of her."
Jamie's chest tightened further.
"I don't…"
"This is her skin… from her back."
She snatched her hand back. "You're shitting me, right?"
Finally he looked up at her. She knew even before he shook his head that he wasn't.
Crisscross rj-8 Page 20
