Skin of the Wolf

by Sam Cabot

  54

  Matt Framingham climbed in the passenger door as Hamilton, dropping into the driver’s seat, yanked out her cell phone. “Afternoon, Captain,” he heard her say after a moment. “Charlotte Hamilton, Homicide. Can you send me a couple of unies for a surveillance on the Sotheby’s case? Good, thanks.” She gave Spencer George’s address. “I’ll stay until they come.” Clicking off, she turned to Framingham, who spoke before she could.

  “Captain Patino at the One-Nine. You don’t think we have enough for a warrant but you want these guys watched because either Bonnard’s really there, which is why they won’t let us in, or he might show up. Or they know where he is and they’ll be heading there. But you want unies to do it because you have something more exciting in mind for us.”

  “For extra credit,” she said, “what is it?”

  “Rockefeller? Maybe he’s really in his lab?”

  Charlotte jabbed the air as if hitting a button. “Baaaap! You fail. Rockefeller gets public funds, tax breaks, that shit. They know better than to lie to the NYPD even if a star scientist tells them to.” She grinned. “Luckily, there’s more than one way to track an Indian. Soon as we turn this over, I’m hauling your white ass to an Indian bar.”

  The uniformed officers from the One-Nine came and settled in, armed with photos of Spencer George, Father Kelly, and the spooky-looking Carbonariis. “I didn’t think you got him,” Charlotte said when he showed her that shot. “You didn’t make him look at you like you usually do.”

  “I snuck it in. I’m telling you, that is not a normal man. I didn’t want to piss him off so he’d go back inside, and they’d slam the door and you wouldn’t get your subtly intimidating interrogation done. Or he’d vanish in a puff of smoke. Or attack me and bite my head off.”

  “Literally?”

  “Of course literally. Until I checked the screen I wasn’t even sure he’d appear in the photo.”

  Framingham e-mailed the photos back to the squad room. On the drive to upper Manhattan Charlotte called Ostrander to tell him to dig deeper on Thomas Kelly and Spencer George, to find if there was any way to tie either of them to Brittany Williams, to Sotheby’s, to Indian art, to anything Native at all. “Besides that, George seems to be dating an Abenaki guy we think might swing both ways,” she said. “What? Abenaki, for God’s sake, look it up. And see what you and Sun can come up with on this Carbonariis. He’s some kind of priest, too. I just think something’s going on here that’s weirder than shit.”

  She laughed and clicked off.

  “Ostrander was funny?” Framingham asked.

  “Yeah. He said ‘weirder than shit’ makes it for sure your kind of case.”

  The Washington Heights block Charlotte pulled up on was like a thousand other run-down streets in New York and the bar beyond the pitted steel door was like a hundred other dives Framingham had seen. Except maybe for the drum on the wall and the old photos of long-haired guys in buckskin cradling rifles across their arms.

  “Charlotte,” said the bartender, and then with a noncommittal glance at Framingham, “this a social call or an official one?”

  “Frankie,” Charlotte acknowledged. “Detective Matt Framingham, this is Frankie Moore. He and his brother Len own this dump.”

  “Welcome to the Stonehenge, Detective,” the bartender said. His manner didn’t change, but Framingham guessed he was on notice now: Charlotte had announced this was business. “You guys on duty or you want a drink? Or you want a drink even though you’re on duty?”

  “Beers,” said Charlotte, settling on a stool. “And whatever you’re having, Frankie, if you want one.”

  Framingham understood and he sat, also. Alcohol on duty was against NYPD official policy, but some guys wouldn’t trust you if you didn’t drink with them and the brass had always appreciated that. The bartender uncapped two Labatt’s and poured himself a Johnnie Walker Black. Ah, the high price of information.

  “Looking for an Abenaki,” Charlotte said, sipping her beer. “Name of Michael Bonnard. Know him?”

  Frankie nodded. “Doc. He was here last night, a couple hours before you were. I was gone by then, and I forgot to tell Len about Doc or he’d have told you to call him.”

  Framingham thought he’d missed something but if he had, so had Charlotte. She said, “What?”

  “You’re looking for Doc to tell him you found Eddie, right?”

  “Who’s Eddie?”

  “His brother.” Frankie looked puzzled. “He was here last night looking for him. Doc was, I mean, for Eddie.”

  “Bonnard was here last night?”

  “Sure. With some English guy. He said it was important that they find Eddie, but by the time Eddie got here they were long gone and so was I.”

  “Son of a bitch. They didn’t tell us they were here.”

  Frankie hesitated. “They, who? Doc and the English guy? You found them already?”

  “Lost them again, though.”

  Charlotte’s voice had barely changed but Framingham could see anger in her tight jaw, in the straightening of her spine.

  The bartender seemed to sense it, too. “Oh. Anyway, I don’t know where Doc is but I can give you his number.”

  “I have it. He doesn’t answer.”

  “Oh,” he said again. “Maybe, you can ask Eddie. Maybe they even found each other already.”

  “Where do I find Eddie?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you would.”

  “Frankie, why the hell would I? I never heard of the guy until just now.”

  The bartender’s face slipped from puzzled to uncomfortable. He cast a glance at Framingham, who smiled back brightly. “Um,” Frankie said. “Eddie Bonnard. Tahkwehso. According to Len, you left with him last night.”

  55

  Son of a bitch!” Charlotte, her face burning, slammed the car door and grabbed for her phone. Framingham had barely gotten his side shut when she threw the car into gear and peeled out. She drove with one hand and speed-dialed with the other.

  “Ostrander.”

  “Get me warrants on Michael Bonnard and Spencer George. And Father Thomas Kelly, while you’re at it.”

  “You have something new?”

  “They lied about their whereabouts last night.”

  “All of them?”

  “At least two of them. Yeah, probably the priest, too.”

  “Good enough. I’ll get on it.”

  “You know what? Carbonariis, too.”

  “Okay,” Ostrander said. “I was about to call you anyway. You sound pissed off.”

  “Goddamn right I am.”

  “Should I ask why?”

  “No. Call me about what?”

  “There’s a body in the Bronx you might want to look at.”

  “Why would I?”

  “One, it’s an unexplained violent death where no one saw the perp come or go.”

  “A dime a dozen. And I’m kind of busy.”

  “Two, there’s a box on the scene that’s similar to the one the Sotheby’s wolf mask is in, except it has more Indian stuff on it.”

  That stopped her. “There’s another mask?”

  “There’s another box. Empty when the responding officers got there.”

  “What the hell do you mean by ‘Indian stuff’?”

  “Ah, there’s the Hamilton I know and love.”

  “Screw you. What do you mean?”

  “Trees, animals, I don’t know. I can send a photo.”

  “Send it to Framingham, I’m driving. Who’s the vic?”

  “Framingham, if you’re driving. I know, screw me. A priest named Gerald Maxwell.”

  “Who’s he to me?”

  “Maybe no one. But he’s the head of the department at Fordham where your pal Father Kelly teaches.”

  Charlotte thumbed th
e phone off. She screeched into a U-turn on Broadway and was rewarded with blasting horns. Framingham, braced on the dashboard, said mildly, “I’m not sure you can arrest a guy and his friends because you slept with his brother.”

  “Shut the hell up!”

  She drove like a rainstorm, siren blaring, lights flashing. She swerved and honked and used the adrenaline flood to let her muscles and her fingertips take the lead. It was a kind of meditation, driving like this, a space where her body could come forward and her mind retreat. It was like running or skydiving and it was working fine until Framingham yelped, “Jesus Christ, Charlotte! He won’t be any more dead if we get there five minutes later!”

  That smashed the mood, switched the autopilot off. She snarled, said nothing, but was forced to slow; and when she did, the question she’d been trying to outrun jumped out in front of her: What the hell is she so upset about, really? Spencer George and Co.? People lied about their whereabouts all the time. No, obviously it wasn’t that. Yes, she seemed to have slept with her prime suspect’s brother, but she’d been put on the damn case because she was an Indian, and when you factor in the Indian bar, her going home with Tahkwehso—Eddie goddamn Bonnard!—could be written off as just one big sick coincidence. Embarrassing, but when had she ever given a crap about being embarrassed? But she was mad. She was furious. Why?

  Tahkwehso. Eddie Bonnard. Whatever the hell his name was. Reluctantly she forced her mind to stay with him until she got it.

  She didn’t want him to be a suspect’s brother.

  She didn’t want him to be any part of this case. Of any case. Of anything dirty. Earthbound. Bad. She wanted him to be—what, Charlotte, for God’s sake? The Noble Savage? The Indian at the End of the World? What the hell was she thinking? He was a great lay, a nice enough guy, but . . . She tried to shake it off, this odd feeling of both connection and protection. How many one-night stands had she had? And how many had been Indians? It was a minor specialty of hers, and now, suddenly, she found herself spoiling for a fight because this one guy, some damn long-hair just down off the rez, was turning out to be what he shouldn’t have been: human.

  She was grateful when, in what might have been record time from Washington Heights, they roared through the gate into the Fordham parking lot. The security guard pointed them across campus before Charlotte asked. Crime Scene and the ME’s crew were already there, vehicles and cops and techs scattered around the stone chapel. A three-deep crowd of gawkers stood shooting pictures with their phones. Charlotte parted them like an icebreaker, Framingham in her wake. At the yellow tape she barked, “Who’s in charge?”

  “That would be me,” a chubby, mustached man said. “John Ciara, Bronx Homicide, out of the Four-One.”

  Charlotte showed her badge, said, “Charlotte Hamilton,” and had the irrational urge to add, “Lenape.” She was saved by Framingham, who gave his name and, with an odd look at her, wagged his thumb back and forth between them and said, “Midtown South Homicide.”

  “They told me you were coming.” Ciara led the way into the chapel. In the high stone room Crime Scene’s brilliant lights gleamed off polished pews and banished the winter dusk to the corners. “What’s your interest?”

  “The Sotheby’s vic from last night,” Charlotte said. “You heard about that? This could be related.”

  “No shit.” They reached the eye of the cop-tech hurricane and stopped. “Well,” Ciara said, “this guy went down fighting.”

  Tape perimeter, fingerprint powder, lights and noise and white-suited techs: all the bustle faded as Charlotte knelt over the body. Open eyes, blood pooled under the head, deep scratches on the face. Without touching him, she leaned closer, to examine the hands. Hallelujah, blood and gunk under the fingernails and on the priest’s gold ring. Unless he’d scratched up his own face, it was the killer’s and there’d be DNA. She let her gaze travel the body, its position, the eyes and the angle of the head. As Ciara said, he’d put up a fight, this priest, and he’d died terrified. But bending over him, Charlotte found her spine and fingertips tingling, saw colors get sharper, and her instinct, that whatever-it-was that kicked in sometimes, was telling her those facts weren’t related quite the way Ciara seemed to think. This man hadn’t fought because he was afraid to die. He was in danger of losing something and he was fighting to keep it. To save it from someone else. His killer had taken—had come for, she was rock-solid sure—whatever was in the box, and Father Maxwell had died trying to protect it.

  “Do you want it?”

  “What?” Squinting against the lights, Charlotte looked up at Ciara. “Do I want what? What was in the box?”

  He frowned. “The case. Yours if you want it, otherwise we’ll keep it in the Bronx.”

  “No,” said Charlotte. “I want it. This box—it was like this when you got here?”

  “Yes. Open and empty.”

  “Do you know what was in it?” She stood and slipped between the pews to where the wooden box sat.

  “No. Or where it is now. Or whether it had anything to do with what went on here, even. We printed it and we’re working on the pews and everything else around here, but the place is never locked, so good luck. I have a preliminary list of his coworkers and friends, and people out canvassing for witnesses. The president of the university’s been calling every ten minutes.”

  “Keep him away from me. Give the info you have to Framingham. Keep the canvass going.” Charlotte spoke vaguely, not looking at Ciara. “The box. It’s been swabbed, printed, everything? I can examine it?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  She sat on the smooth cool pew, taking the box onto her lap, closing the lid. She hadn’t realized she was cold, but she must have been because the box warmed her. Probably because it had been under the lights for a while, that was why. She peeled off her latex gloves. The carved wood felt good, oddly familiar under her fingers, though she’d never seen this box before. It was roughly the same size and shape as the one at Sotheby’s that held the Ohtahyohnee mask, but where that box was beautifully crafted, padded inside, but unadorned—something commissioned by a collector for the protection of his investment—this one seemed considerably older, with evidence of wear. It was beautiful but more crudely put together, as though made by a skilled craftsman with less refined tools. Its hinged lid bore lines of stylized river water and pointed pine trees, and images of eagle, bear, and wolf. She let her fingertips wander along the river and then slowly opened the lid. The box was unlined; whatever had been in it, then, must have been well wrapped. On the underside of the lid she saw a carved cross superimposed on Grandmother Moon, and the words Praevalere et veneror. Latin? She traced the words with a finger.

  “Charlotte? Hey, Hamilton. Anyone home?”

  Framingham’s voice reached Charlotte from a long distance away. She looked up at the bright lights and chapel walls and blinked. Grandmother Moon? When had she ever thought like that? She gazed once more at the cross, at the words. Without answering Framingham she put the box aside, worked her way back to Maxwell’s body, and lifted his hand. On the bloodied gold ring on the priest’s fourth finger she saw the same image, and the same words.

  Straightening, she spoke to the ME’s men, who were drinking coffee in a nearby pew. “You can take him away now. Bag the hands,” she said to make sure, and was rewarded with an eye roll. She turned to her partner. “What, Matt?”

  Framingham’s brow creased. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just great. What is it?”

  “Uh-huh, you look great. Okay, don’t slug me. One of Ciara’s canvassers found a witness you might want to talk to.”

  “About what?” Charlotte followed Framingham out of the pew and down the aisle.

  “She was almost knocked down by a guy tearing out of here like he’d seen a ghost. Maybe the same ghost you just saw.” He gave her a sideways look and she scowled at him.

  “Did she gi
ve a description of this guy? Aside from if he’s seeing ghosts, he’s crazy like you?”

  “Big. Moderately dark-skinned—she thought maybe Hispanic. And he’s favoring his left side, as though his shoulder hurt.”

  “Son of a bitch. Michael Bonnard?”

  “That was my first thought.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “You mean was his brother with him?”

  “I mean, was he alone!” But she meant, Was his brother with him? Framingham was smart enough not to pursue it.

  Charlotte met the witness, a backpack-toting student, and tried for more details. She showed the girl Bonnard’s picture and got a shrug, maybe yes, maybe no. Would she recognize the man again? Maybe yes, maybe no. Which direction did he go? Like, sort of that way. Was anyone with him? Didn’t see anyone, but like, I wasn’t looking, you know? While Charlotte’s blood pressure rose, Framingham answered his ringing cell phone. She heard, “Great,” then, “No shit,” then, “Okay, I will.” He held his phone out to her. “Ostrander. He called me in case you were still driving.”

  “Get her contact details.” Charlotte pointed at the witness as she took Framingham’s phone. “What, Vinnie?”

  “Got your warrants. Michael Bonnard, Spencer George, Thomas Kelly, Father Whatshisname Carbonariis. Material witnesses, all of them.”