by Andy Straka
But even the homeless like Raines didn’t appear to be that desperate. The city helped. The state and the federal government helped. Churches, synagogues, and mosques helped. I read in an article once that more than six-hundred food banks were open in the city. Why would someone resort to a primitive form of hunting in the middle of such a great metropolis in order to survive? It made me think about the park again, its sham wilderness, and all that it represented.
“What difference does all this make to you?” Raines interrupted my train of thought. “You a falconer yourself?”
“That’s right.”
“Not in New York, though. I never saw you at any of the meets.”
“No. In Virginia. You know there are some people around here who say they’ve been seeing a falconer flying a bird in the park,” I told him.
“Yeah? No big deal. Probably just someone doing a demonstration or a show with the Park Conservancy.”
“No, this is a little different. The witnesses say they’ve seen someone carrying an owl at night.”
I watched him carefully for his reaction. He thought about it for a few moments before responding. “At night? A Great Horned?”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Don’t know anything about it at all.”
If what the old man had said was true, Raines was a much better pickpocket than a liar. We’d printed out a copy of the story of The Book Of The Mews. “This ring any bells for you?” I pulled it out of my pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to him.
He scratched his head, reading. “Some story,” he said and shrugged.
“You never heard of this before?”
“Of course. I always been into learning about the civil war. Sometimes I can even see the cannons and the horsemen, the big plumes of smoke, men dying everywhere, swords flashing. Brothers even fighting one another. Slaves and Southern Belles. Those were some times.” He shook his head and grinned.
“But you wouldn’t be tempted to try to reenact this story on your own, like say, with an owl here in the park.”
“Not me, no sir.”
I decided to try a different tack. “Where do you sleep at night this time of year, Pock?”
“Me? Oh, I don’t know. Here and there.”
“If someone were hunting with an owl in the park when it closes after dark, where do you suppose they’d go?”
He thought about it for a moment, eyeing me.
“Could be anywhere.” He shrugged. “Lots of game, critters running around in here.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
“But hunting’s illegal in this park.”
“Sure it is. So is picking people’s pockets.”
“So?”
“I think you’re lying when you say you don’t know anything about this man with an owl in the park. Am I right?”
He gave a cheeky grin. Then his mood seemed to sour as he pointed a finger in my face. “Look, pal. I’ve been trying to be nice here, to answer your questions and help you out and all.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just getting by, like everybody else in the world.”
“Okay.”
“I’d like to move along now. I don’t have anything more to say to you people.”
He started to turn away, but Nicole stepped in front of him. “But you wouldn’t want anything to happen to the owl, would you? Or whoever’s flying it? We need to find out what’s going on so we can help with the situation.”
He hesitated.
“Just tell us one thing. Is the person with the owl kidnapping and killing people’s pets?”
“What? No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“They’re just hunting for food, then.”
He scratched his chin. “Possibly.”
“What about the shooting that happened last night?” I asked.
“What about it?”
“You heard about it?”
“Of course, it’s all over the street.”
“Cops found somebody’s homemade falconry lure near the bodies.”
“Christ,” he said under his breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“You doing business with Los Miembros, Pock?”
“Me? No way. Not me.”
“There’re liable to be more people killed if we don’t hurry up and figure out what’s going on here.”
“You don’t think I know that?” He was clearly agitated now. His eyes darted back and forth, searching among the trees and rocks and bushes, as if they were seeing ghosts.
I tucked my business card in his jacket pocket. “Keep that. All right?”
“Whatever, man. I gotta go.”
“Why don’t you meet us here again tonight, after the fireworks when they’re aren’t so many people around. We can talk about this further. Midnight work for you?”
He looked around again. “Maybe. I don’t know. I gotta go.” He set his chin, spun on his heels, and began walking away down the brick path.
“Midnight. We’ll be here,” I called after him.
He looked back but didn’t answer. Nicole started to march after him, but I held up my hand. “That’s okay. Let him go,” I said.
In the distance, the sound of jazz floated through the trees, mixed with the even more distant rumble of the diesel exhaust from a city bus.
14
Nicole returned to Grayland Tower to see if she could gather any more information from other apartment owners. Before joining her, I went to track down our client.
Columbia Presbyterian Hospital rises above the Hudson on Washington Heights within sight of the GW Bridge. I found Dr. Lonigan’s modest office among a row of faculty spaces on the fifth floor of one of the outlying buildings.
Lonigan was speaking into her dictating machine. The door was open. I knocked on the frame.
“Working overtime. And on a major holiday, no less.”
“Someone had to take call for today,” she said, switching off her mike and setting it down on her desk. “I happened to come up in the rotation. Thought I’d catch up on one of my research papers while things are slow.”
“We may have found our mysterious falconer,” I said.
“Really?”
“It’s not definite. He may not be the one. But we’ve spoken with him and he knows we’re out here.” I explained about our encounter with Raines.
“How’s he linked to Watisi though?” she asked when I was through.
“Remains to be seen. If he really is our guy, and if there is a link.”
“A lot of ‘ifs’.”
“Yes. Darla told you about the shootings last night and what they found, right?”
“She did. And it concerns me. What do you think is going on?”
“Still not sure, exactly.” I told her what we’d learned about Los Miembros and about The Book Of the Mews and the theory that someone might be playing copycat.
“Interesting,” she said.
“Something else our investigation has turned up.”
“What is that?”
“You were arrested twice in Oregon almost twenty years ago.”
The doctor glared at me for a moment. “I don’t see what relevance any of that has to the current situation.”
“Maybe none,” I said. “I hope that’s the case. But since, as an activist, you have been known to resort to extreme measures before, I’m worried that they may be also be the case now.”
“That was a long time ago,” she said. “We were fighting for what we believed in.”
“You’re still involved though, aren’t you? Darla told us there had been a protest.”
“I support certain groups, yes. It has nothing to do with my accusations against Dominic Watisi.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
I said nothing.
Lonigan, who still hadn’
t risen from her chair, tilted her head as she caught my eye. “Do you enjoy finding sport in watching one creature dismember another?”
I was taken aback by the abruptness of the question. “What are you talking about?”
“Hunting.”
“That’s not what it’s about.”
“What is it about then?”
I don’t know why, but my first reaction was to smile. “That all depends,” I said.
“On what?”
“On the grace of the attack. On the swiftness and cunning of the quarry. On it being a fair fight.”
“You make it sound almost poetic.”
I shrugged. “For the animal it’s more than poetic. It’s survival. There is a lot of killing and a lot of death in the wild, whether we like or not. Predators are often more at risk than the prey.”
“Like our famous red-tailed hawk, Pale Male, down in the park.”
“Not exactly. That bird’s got a million eyes looking out for him. Most hawks and falcons, if and when their time comes, die an anonymous death.”
She pressed her bee stung lips together, but said nothing.
“I’d like to hear more about your agenda in this whole thing,” I said.
She said nothing.
I waited.
“Well,” she said. “As I told you, it’s no secret I’m an active supporter of a humane-based animal rights organization with headquarters here in the city. When the article appeared in the newspapers, somehow that fact was highlighted above most of the others.”
“People want to sell newspapers,” I said.
“I suppose. But the unfortunate consequence is that another group of individuals, primarily activist birdwatchers upset with domestic cats running loose … well, you know what they do.”
“Kill small birds.”
“Yes, some have been known to do that. And these bird people have somehow become convinced, based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever, that this owl was actually attacked by my cat and that I’ve concocted the whole story about my cat being missing.”
The picture was becoming a little clearer. “So you thought you’d okay Darla bringing Nicole and me in to help placate the birdwatchers.”
“That was part of the reason, yes.”
“But now this looks like it may turn into something a whole lot more.”
“Yes.”
“Just so we’re all on the same page here,” I said.
“One more thing you should know,” she said.
“I can’t wait.”
“We have a hearing scheduled tomorrow in housing court against Watisi.”
“All right.”
“Some protestors may show up.”
“In the middle of what has become a murder investigation.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sounds like the fun is just beginning,” I said.
15
Back at Grayland Tower, Apartment 11C, another end unit a few floors below Dr. Lonigan’s, belonged to a Mr. Mitchell Collins. At least, according to the list in my hand. Collins was the owner of one of the other missing pets, also a cat. With a couple of hours still to go before our appointment up in Harlem, Nicole had struck out so far. I pitched in to help. Collins’ occupation was listed as international manufacturing consultant.
Ringing the bell, I couldn’t help noticing the micro surveillance camera embedded in one of the wall sconces framing his apartment door. Apparently, Dominic Watisi wasn’t the only one concerned with hyper-security at his residence. On the other hand, maybe it was routine for the likes of Grayland Tower. Protection for the paranoid.
After pushing the bell three times to no avail, I was just about to cross Collins off my list, when I saw a shadow move across the peephole from inside. Someone was home.
A deadbolt was thrown, the regular lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal a tall, silver-haired man, trim for his age, with a runny nose and blood-soaked eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was sleeping and didn’t hear the bell.”
“Sorry to wake you, Mr. Collins.”
“That’s all right. What can I do for you?”
He was dressed in a slightly wrinkled oxford button-down and stylish corduroy trousers with pleats. An odd choice, I thought, for a sweltering summer evening, but in the air-conditioned sanctum of his apartment, perhaps not.
“My name’s Frank Pavlicek. I’m a private investigator looking into the missing pets from the building. I was hoping to talk to you about your cat.”
He looked me up and down for a moment. “Of course. Of course, come in.”
He pulled the door open wider and stepped aside, allowing me to enter. I caught a whiff of something medicinal on his breath.
Collins’ apartment was almost identical in layout to Lonigan’s, but his décor couldn’t have been more different. The place looked like a museum. From the entrance hall to the sitting room on our right, to as far as I could see down the hallway leading to the great room, the floors and walls were covered with thick oriental carpets and grass mat. Tapestries, wooden carvings, various type of weaponry including a spear, a shield and two blowguns, exotic African headdresses, paintings and photos of the Serengeti, and the like—all added to the display.
“You’re a collector, I see.”
“Yes,” he said. “My curse, I’m afraid. The fewer historical artifacts there are left in the world, the more I seem to have to have them.”
“African?”
“Yes, but that’s just what you see here. It’s why you caught me napping too. My flight from Cameroon was delayed and didn’t get into JFK until almost four a.m.”
“Cameroon. That would be Sudan, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“A buying trip?”
He looked at a side table in the hall where an ebony statue of a slender naked woman with a basket on her stomach rested between a pair of ivory candlesticks. “Not for these type of items, I’m afraid. A client of mine, a tractor parts manufacturer with a factory there, has been having some labor negotiations difficulties. Things have grown rather testy so I had to go over for a couple of days.”
“Long trip for such a short time.”
He shrugged. “It’s what I do.”
“From the news, it doesn’t sound like the most stable place in the world. A lot of killing. The Janjaweed in Darfur.”
“That’s in the South of the country. I try not to involve myself in local politics.”
He led me down the hall toward the great room, but turned right down another corridor that opened into a smaller room.
“I hope you don’t mind if we talk in my office. I seem to spend most of my time here, and it’s where Domino liked to spend most of her time too.
“Domino?”
“My cat.”
“Domino your only pet?”
“Yes. She’s been missing now for a week and a half.”
“So I understand. I’m sorry.”
We entered the room, a light and palm filled atrium complete with a large desk, a desktop computer and two laptops, laser printer, and numerous engineering drawings.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, beckoning to a leather side chair in front of the desk.
“Why so many computers?” I asked.
“I’m a tech-geek, I guess. I like to play with them in my spare time.”
He sat in his own high-back chair behind the desk and flipped open an ornate silver box next to him beside the telephone. From it, he extracted a cigarette.
“You smoke?” he asked.
“No.”
“Hope you don’t mind if I do. Nasty habit. I cut way back for a while, but seem to have picked it back up again.”
“It’s your house.”
He nodded and lifted a large wooden match from a compartment inside the box, striking it against the back of the desk and lighting his cigarette. He drew in a deep draught of smoke, leaned his head back, and exhaled toward the ceiling.
“So you’re lo
oking for the missing pets. Are you working for Korva Lonigan?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I hope you can find Domino.”
“How long have you owned her?”
“Domino? Oh, I don’t know. I’d say it must be four, five years. She belonged to my ex-wife, until the woman decided to become allergic about the same time she was throwing me out of the house.”
“So you ended up with the cat.”
“Cold bargain, eh?”
“Was that when you moved in here?”
“That’s right. About ten months ago, just after the building opened up again.”
“And your wife, excuse me, I mean your ex-wife still lives in your old home?”
“Yes. Over in Saddlebrook.”
“Any kids?”
“No. Just the two of us and the kitty.”
“What made you decide to move into the city?”
He blew out another puff of smoke. “I wanted to be where the action is. I’ve always wanted to live in Manhattan, especially here on the park. Business is going well, despite the divorce. I’m single again. I could afford it.” He shrugged.
“How’d you pick this particular building?”
“A realtor showed it to me when it was under renovation.”
“Maybe Domino had trouble adjusting to her new environment, somehow found her way downstairs, and decided to strike out for greener pastures.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. My wife was the one who adored Domino, but at least I wasn’t sneezing all over her every other second. She was safe here. I gave her her space. A cat needs space. You own one?”
“No.”
“No pets of any kind?”
“I have a bird.”
“Really?” He stamped out his cigarette looking interested. “What type of bird?”
“A hawk named Torch.”
“A hawk. Hey, now that is cool.”
“Yes,” I said. “Tell me about what happened when you first noticed Domino was missing.”
“If you’re working for Dr. Lonigan, you’re no doubt already aware about her theory regarding what happened to our pets.”
