The Parchment (The Memory of Blood)

by Sylvie Brisset

  Diego's technique was similar to that of the police. He interviewed any witnesses. Except that he was practicing it much faster and in a more efficient way, by penetrating the minds of people, violating their thoughts.

  They surveyed the streets near the hotel. At this late hour of the night, passersby were relatively few and stared warily at people they encountered. This attitude could only serve them.

  The theft had just been committed. They found the trail of the thief by probing the memory of a woman waiting for her bus, hands clutching her purse. Jumping from one memory to another whenever they outran new strollers, they progressed to a subway. Without exchanging a word, they descended the stairs to the station. Local residents did not use this means of locomotion. Their steps resounded under the tiled vaults. They reached on quays, searching the slightest space with a glance. Nobody!

  Charles roared his disappointment. The thief had escaped and with him the precious documents!

  He was still furious, and returned to the hotel without worrying about Diego. The thief probably expected a well-filled wallet and had been disappointed not to find a wad of cash. This shit had touched his documents, irreplaceable originals, of his dirty paws. But was it really a coincidence, or was he obeying the orders of a sponsor? Charles wondered. Anyway, this little hoodlum was a dead man.

  If he were smart, he would seek buyers among private collectors of rare and old objects. Charles knew a few of them, to whom he had sold parts of his estate.

  What he had to do now was visit them, to find the intermediaries of this underground market and get back his property.

  The thief was going to pay dearly for this affront. He ignored with whom he was dealing but would soon find out. Charles swore it.

  CHAPTER - 5 -

  The room that had swarmed with activity up to eight pm, with the rhythmic devices and hard practice of club members who care about their form, was now silent. In the semi darkness, weight machines projected disturbing shadows on the walls, like instruments of torture, threatening to loosen from the wall. The outside flashing neon lights, which reflected in the mirrors of the room, added intermittently a sinister touch to the spooky décor. They illuminated with violent red glow the cages housing berths raised dumbbells, giving life to the steel bars whose arms seemed ready to catch and crush anyone who would venture near. Despite the ventilation that provided a scent of mint and lemon, a heavy smell of sweat, animal promiscuity still hung in the room. Pure white towels rested on the banks of the devices, abandoned by athletes who had left the club at closing time.

  The second, smaller room formed a reassuring illuminated island. In this room were stored a row of bikes ready to rush on an imaginary race, and treadmills. A television set on the wall broadcasted the evening's news in a muted way, while the sound of a runoff came from the showers near the locker rooms.

  Jonas Graam remained some minutes with his head on the shower wall, letting the hot jet relax his muscles, which were still taut with the effort. Once again he pushed his limits and felt an intense satisfaction. Who would believe that he was once a puny teenager, seeing the bodybuilder’s physique he had built through perseverance. His tan was now permanent and brought out the deep green of his eyes. His hair began to be sparse above his head. He would have to make an appointment for implants. Something natural, of course.

  The automatic switching mechanism brutally interrupted the stream, bringing him to reality. After drying himself quickly, he carelessly threw the towel at the small pile of sweaty clothes he had abandoned. On the wooden bench, he took the balm he purchased at great expense from a Parisian perfumer. A slightly musky fragrance surrounded him. Having placed his feet in front of the mirror, he began to rub his body lasciviously while playing with his muscles. Women loved his muscles he showed off with this balm. A thin bright shone on each of his pectoral muscles. Facing the mirror, he made movements of contraction to bring them out. The one with whom he had an appointment tonight would not withstand it. Like the others. Like all the others. What a contrast to the runt he was in his youth! Today he was rich, handsome and muscular. He associated with the New York high society. Everyone wanted to invite to their table this young entrepreneur, owner of the fashionable gym club of Eighth Avenue, with a well-furnished pad of relations and filled wallet. The money bought everything. And his last activity had been gainful.

  He turned to reach the locker room and froze. Three men entered quietly. The first was known to him. Hans Kopf, Assistant Attorney was at a time one of his customers. But Jonas had learned to be wary of this man with a well-established reputation whose face froze you. When he looked at you with very pale blue eyes, it seemed to penetrate your mind. A journalist had once called him Ice Eyes. Far from being offended, Kopf had taken over the nickname. This, he said, helped in getting people into condition to answer his questions. Public man, he could be seen at all major and charity events. It was at one of those events that Jonas had met him for the first time. The two men, lovers of antiques, had a lively conversation.

  But it was unlikely that Ice Eyes had moved to talk shop. Tonight it was not the public man he had in front of him, but the dark side of the character, that Jonas had already felt under the guise of well urbane deputy prosecutor.

  The two men with Kopf seemed to lose interest in Jonas. But he was not fooled. Under this feigned nonchalance, they actually blocked the door of the room and access to the locker room. He was trapped. And he did not need to be a soothsayer to guess that they were thugs. In fact one of them had removed the skirts of his jacket revealing ostensibly the butt of a revolver.

  "Good evening my dear Jonas. You don't mind my unexpected visit, do you?

  "What do you want?"

  "Just talk. You grant me a few minutes?

  Jonas felt ill. His internal signal of danger was spinning. Voluntarily with very slow movements, he picked up a towel and put it around his hips. Not that he felt shame. He was very proud of his body. But naked in front of killers, he felt an unpleasant feeling of vulnerability. It was with a firmer voice that he resumed the conversation.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "You have really disappointed me, Jonas. You knew I wanted this book and yet you sold it to another."

  Jonas chose not to answer. In these cases, it was better to let the other speak for discovering what he knew exactly, and think of ways to get out of this predicament. He distrusted the honeyed tone Kopf was using.

  Kopf wrinkled his eyelids, which made him look like a big cat that had caught a mouse and had not yet decided whether it should kill it immediately or not.

  "I know you had the book in the hands. You sold it, fewer than forty-eight hours ago. A unit. That was the stake, wasn't it?

  Jonas was silent. Kopf was definitely well informed. Too well informed about his activities. He had to think and fast. Kopf's henchmen were dangerously close to him. He tried at least to protect his back if he was not able to leave the room. But his back hit one of the killers, who under the pretext of maintaining his balance gripped his right arm.

  "Tell your gorilla to let go."

  "Tell me to whom you sold it, Graam."

  "Confidentiality is a rule. I never reveal the names of my clients."

  "This is a tribute to you. But I want this information. Everything has a price."

  Jonas relaxed somewhat. If they talked business all was not lost.

  "And what is at stake?"

  "But your life of course. What else?" Kopf replied with a grin.

  The guy who was holding his arm twisted it in his back, and with his free hand grabbed his throat. Jonas wanted to get free of him, but his opponent crushed his trachea, while the second man applied the barrel of a gun to his temple. Jonas tried in vain to swallow. He was running out of air while the pressure was becoming stronger. His sight grew dim and bright spots appeared like poor fireworks.

  Kopf left his good manners to approach Jonas closely. The face now contorted with anger, he stared at Jonas and spoke in a
scathing voice that brooked no discussion.

  "Maybe you have even made a copy of the book before delivery"

  "I never had the book in hand. I was just an intermediary. The parcel has passed through a sealed envelope in the mail. The recipient was a post office box," he gasped.

  "Who gave you the instructions and paid you?

  Jonas clenched his teeth. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Kopf's voice reached him even more distorted, like in a fog that would stifle sight and sounds.

  "His name!"

  "I do not know his name. The transaction was anonymous."

  "What was the contact way?"

  "Just a cell phone number. I did not keep it as I was asked to do so."

  Kopf seemed to weigh the value of this response, and then turned back to Jonas.

  "I'm sure you've discovered who he was. I want his name Graam and I want it right away."

  The killer tightened his grasp. Jonas felt increasingly ill. His legs did not seem able to bear him any longer. He felt himself joining nothingness.

  "My contact was a man named Steinbeck. That's all I know," he whispered.

  "And where can we find this Steinbeck?"

  Jonas hesitated. If he gave that information, he would no longer be useful to Kopf and would sign his death warrant. But the killer at his back left him no time to think. He strengthened his grip and Jonas felt again that he was going to lose consciousness.

  "This is a pawnbroker. On ... the port."

  Kopf made a brief nod to the killer who broke Jonas's neck in a single gesture. Without saying a word, Kopf left the room, leaving his men do the cleaning.

  ***

  Former Lieutenant Porkelevitch heavily pushed the swinging door of the police station. The temperature and noise contrast made him almost jump. Outside, the snow fell slowly but steadily in small flakes, covering the dirty streets of the city of a light coat that reflected the neon lights of Christmas. The sounds were muffled as in cotton. Had it not been cold, he would have almost enjoyed sitting on a bench to watch nature taking its course on the sprawling city.

  The day had been rough and he dreamed only of one thing, sitting in his armchair and drinking coffee with a draft of cognac. The police station was as usual a smoky anthill. The phones were ringing, men railing. In the cage, a strange guy with a fedora called for his lawyer loudly. He shouted to the burr about the miscarriage of justice. But nobody seemed to pay any attention to his complaints.

  A young recruit at the entrance greeted the lieutenant with a nod, but Porkelevitch did not grant him the slightest attention. He crossed the room, greeting with a vague growl his former colleagues whom he met in the crowded aisle, eyes seeking the Lieutenant Barnet.

  He should not be there. For five years he had been resigned from the police. But it was stronger than him. He missed the place. The coffee was disgusting, the room stank like animal. But then, he was missing all that.

  "Well, Lieutenant. Tell him I'm as white as snow. Tell him!"

  Porkelevitch turned. Officer White was at his desk facing a large hilarious black man.

  "What are you doing here, Tootsy?"

  "He was soliciting." Officer White answered.

  "What a dirty word! I was just window shopping!" so-called Tootsy answered.

  "I told you to keep low profile for a while. And it is not a time to freeze your balls in...."

  "Lieutenant!"

  Porkelevitch mechanically turned. Of course it was not for him. Yet, when he saw the captain at his door, barking his orders, he saw himself five years earlier.

  The captain was then a young man. He was unexpectedly given the job and wanted to rule the post with a lot of theories worthy of police manuals but far from reality. Beginning with his arrival the number of reports to write and meetings they all had to attend had multiplied by a factor with two digits. The policemen lingered only a short time in office, in order not to cross the pass of the captain and to be lectured like at school. He was also a stickler for the physical appearance of his subordinates. If Porkelevitch was nicknamed Porky, it was due to his name but also because he neglected his appearance. His grey hair, a little too long, hung over the collar of his shirt. A shadow of beard covered his cheeks from the beginning of the afternoon. But was it his fault it was grew so fast? His blue eyes were slightly wrinkled, and you never knew if he was dozing or if he was intently meditating when you were speaking to him. His coat had seen better days and a tail of his shirt was regularly out of his pants, which became shapeless on his prominent belly.

  As today the captain had shouted Lieutenant! turning the heads of those who could be concerned. But at that time, the summons had been for Porky. Understanding it, he had uttered a sigh and had gone slowly into the office of his boss. As soon as he had closed the door the captain attacked him.

  "I didn’t see you in debriefing this morning, Lieutenant."

  Porky had scraped his cheeks to give himself a countenance, causing a sander noise. He preferred to remain silent to keep his composure in front of this abortion that got clearly his position thanks to his address book.

  "You could at least introduce yourself in proper attire. The tails of your shirt exceed your pants."

  Porky only shrugged vaguely, preferring to focus the discussion on anything other than his person.

  "You wanted to talk to me..."

  Seeming to remember the reason why he had brought Porky in, the captain had sat behind his desk and with a gesture invited his subordinate to sit.

  Porky had pretended not to understand the tacit invitation and remained standing, leaning against the door.

  "I see that you are investigating for three weeks a man named..."

  He rummaged through the papers that covered his desk and grabbed a sheet.

  "Jonas Graam, suspected of trafficking. I see no report from you. What are you doing with this case? Who is this guy?"

  Porky was primed to spit to show the great deal of "respect" he had for his captain in general and his remarks in particular. He had turned his head from left to right, looking for a garbage can or ashtray to target. In this movement, he had met the terrified face of the captain who was staring at him, mouth wide open with astonishment. Porky had abstained. With difficulty he had swallowed his saliva jet, and answered the question.

  "He has a criminal past long as your arm. He started by pickpocketing and worked his way up to swindling. He lived as gigolo for a while until her good friend, a woman who could have been his grandmother, died of an unfortunate accident in the stairs. He went up from swindles to insurance, blackmail and lately he raged in the traffic."

  "What kind of traffic?"

  "All that is bought and sold. Except drugs. Weapons and art objects mainly."

  The captain's eyebrows rose up to form a caret.

  "And you have still not caught him?"

  The ironic tone and mocking mimicry of Captain had tremendously irritated Porky. It was annoying enough, having to admit failure. It was useless for this young whippersnapper to add more of it. He was close to imitating him, with exaggeration to make the strokes bolder, but succeeded in refraining, and simply shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness.

  "This guy was a true eel. Each time he managed to escape. Our man has a book of well-developed relationships."

  Saying that, Porky had watched his captain who had not lowered his eyes. There had been a few long seconds of gauging in a silent battle. Finally the captain had taken a sheet on his desk.

  "These relationships do not include the police department, I hope".

  Porky became red with anger.

  "What's your point?"

  "I just noticed that you've never been able to apprehend him. You worked on this so-called investigation for weeks and you have achieved nothing. So I'll withdraw you from the case. Also, you seem to think so well of yourself that you do not judge it necessary to attend meetings or report. Your attitude is unacceptable...."

  "Give me a break!" Porky interrupted by
launching his badge and his gun at the captain's desk.

  This time again, the Captain had turned red.

  "Do not tempt me!" he belched through clenched teeth.

  Without another word Porky was out, without hearing the cries of the captain who gave him one last chance if he came back immediately.

  That day, Porky held his head high when he went out, under the eyes of his stunned colleagues. After this memorable day, Porky, as many former cops, opened a detective agency. But he soon had enough of adultery or theft in hotel business. He had reached a point where he wondered if he was not going to apologize to this captain in order to resume his job. Fortunately his former partner, Jo Barnet, had saved him from this ultimate humiliation. He had sent more and more cases closed by police due to lack of time and workforce. Porky had some success in cases of disappearance and blackmail. And finally he did not regret giving back his police badge in a fit of anger. He missed the police station a little, but he came on a regular basis to drink a coffee. As a drug addict who has just taken his dose, he left for some time, with high morale.

  His cell phone rang, bringing him back to the present. He heard Barnet's voice.

  "We just found Graam dead in his gym club. If you want to see, bring your ass."

  "I'm already on the way!"

  Without losing a moment, he went out, got into his car and drove off with a bang.

  Porky had no trouble finding the gym club. A policeman drove away journalists who had begun to gather in front of the wide doorway. Many neighbours were at their windows, trying to see what was going on in the gym, or watching the journalists on the sidewalks. Graam was part of the 'good society'. The gossip columnists were already numerous, and did not like to be pushed back. They beat the ground with their feet to stay warm and from their mouths came a mist of water vapor. When they saw the lieutenant approaching, they rushed toward him. One of them brandished a microphone under his nose.

  "Lieutenant Porkelevitch, could you tell our listeners the circumstances of the death of Mr. Graam?"