1532750838

by Lotta Smith

  “In your dreams, pal.” Rowling dismissed my offer and slipped into the driver’s seat.

  I tried my best to convince him the importance of letting his assistant chauffeur him around, but he didn’t even let me touch the key. How ungenerous of him.

  Riding with him was a hellish experience—he drove as if he were in the Daytona 500, not the middle of Manhattan.

  “Are you insane?” I managed to say while I tried my best not to puke in the passenger’s seat. “Seriously, you should give your driver’s license back to the state. You can’t drive like a meth-crazed maniac!”

  “Ha. They shouldn’t grant a driver’s license to someone incapable of dodging my car” was his reply.

  He had a point, so I made a mental note to file a complaint to the local DMV.

  “So, what are you going to do at the station?” I asked. If his investigative style was as outrageous as his driving, trouble was bound to happen. In addition, if I recalled it right, NYPD and the FBI were different organizations.

  “I’ll ask questions and, if applicable, I’ll arrest the criminal,” he said in a singsong voice.

  “Remember, the NYPD is in charge of this case, and don’t forget you can’t arrest someone without a warrant,” I warned him between retching. I should have taken a Dramamine before taking this ride from Hell.

  “Mandy, since when did you become an expert to tell me how to do my job?”

  “Since I was briefed on your inclination for causing trouble and offending people the bureau doesn’t want to offend. I heard about how you ticked off the detectives at the 34th Precinct by interfering with their investigation and stealing the credit for the case.”

  “Ha. I didn’t steal the credit. It was so mine.” He snorted. “We need a warrant to arrest someone. Then again, we don’t need a warrant to kill.”

  “You can’t kill people, with or without a warrant!” I spat. Then I added, “Rick, can you please behave like a responsible adult at the NYPD?” Okay, considering the length of our relationship had been just a couple hours, I was no expert on Rick Rowling. Then again, I recognized trouble when I saw it. And I was 100 percent sure that Rick Rowling was big trouble.

  “Hey, Mandy, will you stop lecturing me like you’re talking to a three-year-old?” Rowling made tsk-tsk sounds.

  “By the way, how did Beth MacMahon meet your dad?” I asked, in an attempt to distract him.

  “She was hired to do flower arrangements at some reception for USCAB. Beth is quite successful and well-known in the world of floral arrangement. She’s been seeing him for a couple of years, I believe.”

  I wondered why he knew so much about his father’s love life, but I was too modest to further inquire on that subject.

  “My old man’s into women with their own skills and expertise,” he continued. “He keeps his distance from trophy-mistress types. Women who can make their own successful businesses are his forte.”

  “Wow, sounds like friends with awesome benefits. Perhaps those businesses have dual missions as intel bases,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, right. Why do you think that?”

  “It was supposed to be a joke.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He raised an eyebrow.

  We soon arrived at our destination. It could take up to thirty minutes with traffic, but we reached the 34th in just seventeen minutes. On the way, he barely missed hitting at least five pedestrians, three bikes, and four cars.

  Just like Federal Plaza, it was a no-frills building with a little touch of dust and mildew.

  Rowling went straight to the reception area and informed the officer of the purpose of his visit.

  A few minutes later, a middle-aged Latino guy appeared.

  “Oh, hell.” He grimaced. “Tell me it’s a nightmare, or I’m hallucinating.”

  “Cut it out, Detective Lamont.” Rowling snorted. “I thought you’d be excited to see me. Did you forget the last time we saw each other?”

  “Of course, I remember. Thanks for reminding me of a bad memory buried deep in my memory landfill.” He shrugged. “What’s the deal this time? Are you looking for a demon, shapeshifter, or slit-mouthed woman?”

  “I’m here to see John Sangenis, the suspect in the possible murder of Ivan Flynn.”

  “Oh, that loser. Okay, come on.”

  He led us to Interrogation Room 6 on the third floor.

  A young detective responded to Lamont’s knock. At first, he and the other detective didn’t look excited about the interruption, but when Lamont stated, “We’ve got a situation—Rick Rowling,” they let us in.

  John Sangenis was a good-looking guy; the way he wore his blond hair long reminded me of hair-metal bands around1980s. Perhaps I could have developed a crush on him if it weren’t for his voice and the way he spoke.

  “Thank God you guys are here to prove my innocence!” he exclaimed.

  Immediately, I knew why he wasn’t a successful actor.

  His posture was bad, his nasally voice was unnaturally high-pitched, and he spoke way too slowly, as if he were stoned or something.

  In addition, his gaze was focused on me, which gave me the willies.

  “Assuming you’re innocent,” Rowling chimed in. “Then again, if you’re guilty, I’ll have you arrested pronto. You understand? Personally, I believe Ivan the lousy painter is already dead.”

  Considering pelvic bone fragments were left at the scene, along with the dental implant, his claim didn’t sound too far-fetched.

  Sangenis gasped and squared his shoulders.

  “Is he dead? Oh, what a tragic event! What an atrocious destiny!” he over-dramatized.

  “What shallow words! What a superficial delivery! What a pathetic excuse for an actor!” was Rick’s response. A flicker of annoyance and anger crossed Sangenis’s eyes. He looked hard at Rowling.

  “You know what, Sam? If you want to make it as an actor, you have to improve your vocabulary and delivery,” Rowling, who didn’t have the slightest care about the feelings of a crappy actor, declared.

  “My name is John!” Sangenis snapped.

  He looked more than keen to talk back to Rowling in a fiercer manner, but he stopped short. Maybe he realized it wasn’t smart to offend the guy who might prove his innocence. Or maybe it was because of his lack of vocabulary.

  Completely ignoring Sangenis’s protest, Rowling turned to the detectives. “Can I take a look at the painting found at the scene?”

  “Well….” Detective Fender, the older of the detectives, looked unsure at first, but then he nodded. “Okay.”

  He took us to the evidence room in the basement. Contrary to the ancient looking building, the door of the evidence room was brand new with high-end security.

  “There you are.” Fender pointed at a canvas. “Guess what? This picture is titled G.H.O.U.L., as in the ghoul. Personally, I’d rather call it Blank Space or something like that. The forensics ran chemical and biological tests. They did detect a trace of sagebrush unique to this African island—Cape Verde, but this plant is known to be harmless and assumed to be some kind of additive in the paint. Now take a look at it.”

  It was an obscure painting colored in dark, depressing shades. A bunch of dead people and soon-to-be victims running for their lives in tattered clothes were drawn at the bottom part of the canvas. Based on this piece of work, I assumed the chances of Ivan Flynn making a huge success in the illustration industry were small.

  The nature of the work aside, the most striking part was the blank space, just like Fender mentioned.

  There was a huge void shaped like an alpha male on steroids. In this area, the paint was completely missing, and the bare canvas was visible. His arms were raised with his fists clenched, and the muscles in his arms and upper body seemed to be heavily pumped.

  Looking at the picture, I recalled a theory in which a giant ghoul came out of the canvas and ate the creator. Of course, I kept my mouth shut. I had read some mystery novels in which the murder victim disappeared like smoke in fr
ont of the witnesses. Of course, corpses don’t just disappear; the witnesses were tricked into believing the illusion they saw. I was determined not to be tricked. I’d had enough insults for one day, and I wasn’t keen on becoming the receiving end of further indignation.

  Rick Rowling, on the other hand, wasn’t as subtle, modest, or hesitant as me.

  “All right, here’s what happened,” he declared. “Apparently, the ghoul in the painting slipped out of the canvas, ate the painter, and went somewhere else.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Detective Fender’s facial muscles started twitching as if they had a will of their own. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but kept his mouth shut.

  I admired the detective’s perseverance. Rowling’s remark was ridiculous enough to drive a seasoned investigator into yelling at him, or punching him. Perhaps he knew he could shrug off the experience as a weird encounter with an eccentric Fed. On the other hand, I recalled my situation and felt like pulling my hair out. It was day one of my new career as a special assistant in the FBI and—assuming from Hernandez’s words—it seemed like I was stuck with this job for a long while. Okay, so it was a free country and I was entitled to leave my position any time I wished. Then again, that didn’t mean I could ditch my monstrous student loan.

  After a while, Fender groaned through his gritted teeth. “Thank you for identifying the killer.”

  “You’re welcome.” Rowling nodded nonchalantly.

  “How would you arrest a ghoul? Will there be any judges who’ll issue the arrest warrant?” I said. It was meant to be sarcasm, but Rowling didn’t get it. On the other hand, Fender’s face turned crimson.

  “Leave it all to me. For this matter, I need to look at some references to support my theory,” Rowling said, and looked at the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist. “Okay, so we’ll be back after a lunch break.” He turned toward the exit.

  I thanked Detective Fender, who responded with a wave. Then I followed my free-spirited boss.

  “Hey, have you ever heard of protocol?” I said to Rowling’s back.

  “Stop talking to me like I’m a barbarian or a Neanderthal. When I was a kid, I was always sent to manners camp. I know how to behave like a responsible, boring adult. It’s just that, sometimes, I deliberately avoid behaving like a dull person, mostly because I happen to be a jolly, exciting person.”

  “Wow, really?” I rolled my eyes.

  “Stop rolling your eyes,” he reprimanded me without looking back.

  “I’m not rolling my eyes,” I lied.

  Rowling glared at me suspiciously, but proceeded to make a phone call as he continued walking.

  Once inside the Ferrari, he got off the phone, and I asked, “What did you mean about the ghoul coming out of the canvas and eating the painter? Sometimes, art pieces are described as lifelike, but usually, such pieces are extremely good. The painting at the station was mediocre at best.”

  “Yeah, that was mediocre, and the only reason I don’t use a stronger word is because it’s not worth the criticism.” Rowling shrugged.

  “Then, what? Don’t tell me the paint was made of some kind of flesh-eating bacteria.”

  “That’s close to my theory, if not perfect.”

  “It was supposed to be a joke.”

  “Oh, yeah? To be exact, the paint itself was nothing special. But it was laced with a certain kind of microorganism that is kept in an ametabolic state of life, in which an animal’s metabolic activities come to a reversible standstill, a.k.a. a temporary and reversible life cessation. These microorganisms were resuscitated with light stimulation, and the rest is history. They proliferated, ate the victim, and as a result, the victim disappeared.”

  “How can you tell that without running tests?”

  “They ran tests and detected a trace of sagebrush from Cape Verde. I have a hunch that the microorganisms that ate Ivan Flynn came from islands close to the African coast.” He responded confidently.

  “Are you sure such microorganisms exist? Okay, so the mortality rate of flesh-eating bacterial infection tends to be quite high. Then again, it’s not like the victims disappear like smoke. Most of the time, the patients get necrotizing fasciitis, sepsis, leading to death by septic shock,” I pointed out.

  “What do you know about tardigrades?”

  I ran a quick search through my memory. During my unfinished medical education, I learned a lot about microorganisms like bacteria, viruses, treponema, parasites, and mycobacteria. “If I recall correctly, they are gross with many legs, and they’re not known to cause major infectious diseases.”

  “Tardigrades—a.k.a. water bears—are water-dwelling, eight-legged, segmented micro-animals about 0.02 inches in length. They’re known for being perhaps the most durable of known organisms, able to survive in extreme environments that would kill almost any other animal. For example, they can endure the temperature ranges from minus 458 to 300 degrees Fahrenheit, and more than 1,200 times the normal atmospheric pressure. Throw in ionizing radiation and they can literally breeze out.”

  With his Formula One-worthy driving technique, Rowling barely avoided running over a stray goat that wandered into the boulevard. It looked like someone had tried to sacrifice the animal in a Santeria ritual and failed. Considering its track record of survival, it was a truly lucky goat.

  “Wow, perhaps they’re tougher than roaches.”

  “Right. They can survive by going into an ametabolic state of life called cryptobiosis. In addition, a class of water bears called Extremus-tardigrada has been reported in a hot spring in Cape Verde, which correlates with the plant trace. Unfortunately, the geographical location where Extremus-tardigrada was originally found, as well as the sample, was destroyed due to an earthquake, and a subsequent search was unsuccessful, so the existence of this class of tardigrade is considered dubious. Then again, multiple cases of missing persons leaving their garments behind before disappearing have been reported in that location.”

  The car slowed near Yankee Stadium and stopped at a sports bar. Immediately, a drop-dead gorgeous blonde woman in a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress came out. Air-kissing his cheeks, she cooed, “Hello, darling!”

  Then she took an up-and-down glance at me. “Is she a new girlfriend of yours? She’s not your usual type, but she’s cute, isn’t she?” she said, finger-waving at me.

  Waving back at her, I responded, “No, I’m an assistant, not a girlfriend.” I wanted to tell her Rick Rowling wasn’t my type, but I didn’t.

  “Okay.” She nodded and introduced herself as Jamie.

  “What is your problem?” Rowling raised an eyebrow at me. “Most women react with a blush or something that implies they are happy, excited, or euphoric.”

  “I’m not most women.”

  “That explains your terrible taste in men.” He snorted.

  “Excuse me? What do you know about my taste in men?”

  Without answering my question, he countered, “What do you find irresistible in a man?”

  “That’s a good question.” I wanted to say it was none of his business, but I refrained. “I appreciate a guy who is strong, but also gentle, who can be serious and funny at appropriate times. Someone who is intelligent, thoughtful, and a good listener. He must be comfortable being both the leader and the follower, secure enough to accept me just as I am, and love me no matter what, in spite of sickness, human failings, and unnatural or abnormal deaths.”

  “Ha. The man with the traits of your preference exists only in really lame romance novels. On the other hand, the most eligible bachelor in Manhattan happens to be standing in front of you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where is he? Is he invisible or something?” I shot back.

  “Technically, he’s Mr. Number Two of the most eligible bachelors,” Jamie chimed in.

  Shushing her with a flip of his hand, Rowling shook his head. “Mandy, you must be blind. When was the last time you had your vision checked?”

  “My vision is perfect, thank you ve
ry much,” I assured him. “By the way, being elected as one of the most eligible bachelors is wonderful. Then again, bragging about it seems somewhat, you know, pathetic?”

  “Did you just call me pathetic?” He narrowed his eyes. “Answer carefully, Mandy. I can fire you right here, right now.”

  “No, I didn’t!” I denied profusely. “I was talking hypothetically.” As much as I hated this job, I really didn’t want to be fired. Having been expelled from medical school was bad enough, but getting fired on the first day of my new job would be downright disastrous.

  Jamie cleared her throat. “You guys coming inside, or what?”

  “Of course we’re coming inside,” Rowling grunted.

  Jamie led us into the establishment. White linen tablecloths and the classic wood interior weren’t what I expected in a sports bar. The place was full of patrons, and we were taken to the private room in the innermost part.

  As soon as we were seated, Rowling said, “As usual, I’ll have a ribeye steak with a side of fries.”

  “Okay. What about you?”

  “Well, let me see….” I studied the menu with perhaps more intensity and diligence than I usually displayed during exams. Did I mention I enjoy food? I was torn between crab cakes, shrimp scampi, and shrimp cocktail. Then I noticed they had Kobe beef sliders.

  “Mandy, are you going to spend the entire lunch time moaning?” Rowling inquired. “Order whatever you want. I’ll pay the bill.”

  “Really? Thanks. Okay, I’ll have Kobe beef sliders and a shrimp cocktail.”

  Rowling rolled his eyes.

  “Alrighty,” Jamie said in a singsong voice.

  When she left, Rowling started reading an e-book on a tablet device.

  After a while of intense reading, he said, “Okay, I’ve got everything covered.”

  “Did you find any incidents about human-eating painting materials?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  “Seriously? Assuming such cases exist, the news and the Internet should be all over human-eating paints.”

  “Except the TV and Internet didn’t exist back in the sixteenth century. Want to take a look?” He offered me the tablet.