Cosmic Forces: Book Three in The Jake Helman Files Series

by Gregory Lamberson

  “Marla Madigan.” She offered him a sympathetic smile, as if embarrassed for his failure to recognize her.

  You have my sympathy, he thought.

  Myron Madigan had built his career as a crime-busting Manhattan district attorney. As a cop in the Street Narcotics Apprehension Program, Jake had only worked with the man’s assistant district attorneys, but he knew Madigan’s reputation as an opportunist who took all the credit for work done by his underlings, which of course was nothing new in the arena of politics.

  Madigan’s biography as a crusading mob buster on the order of Eliot Ness was pure modern mythology, and the man had been sworn in as mayor of New York City the same year Jake’s life had gone to hell. When the world’s economy plummeted after Jake had brought Tower International to its corporate knees, Madigan’s popularity also fell to an all-time low, his chances of winning reelection slim at best. The tough, occasionally nasty veneer required to prosecute powerful criminals had not served the new mayor well. With employment down, crime rose, making the man who had campaigned on law and order appear ineffective.

  Jake had inadvertently given the mayor a gift when he destroyed the organization behind Black Magic, the deadly narcotic that had ravaged the city. The drug vanished from the streets overnight, and the crime rate decreased by double digits. Because Jake had been forced to cover his tracks, the drug’s sudden disappearance went unexplained, and true to form, Madigan seized the credit. At the same time, the nation’s economy showed gradual signs of improvement due to federal support, and such signs always manifested themselves in big cities first. Madigan’s approval ratings climbed, and now he was a shoo-in to remain in Gracie Mansion.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” Marla’s voice conveyed hope and sadness at the same time.

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you have a cigarette?” A muscle in her cheek twitched.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “I’m not allowed to smoke anymore. It’s bad for Myron’s image, so he made me quit when we got married.”

  Control freak, Jake thought, summoning a mental image of the mayor’s sneering features and receding hairline. The man reminded him of Count Orlok in Nosferatu, the silent German vampire film. “How can I help you, Mrs. Madigan?”

  Marla’s face drew tighter. “I want you to spy on my husband.”

  Jake studied Marla’s features. A beautiful woman recognized as the city’s first lady and admired for her charitable works, she had sacrificed her career as a popular TV reporter to serve as unofficial hostess to powerful visitors and dignitaries from around the world. “You think he’s cheating on you?”

  “I’m certain of it. A woman knows these things.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t handle spousal cases. It’s sort of a code with me.”

  She uncrossed her legs, drummed her fingers on one knee, then crossed her legs again. “How . . . manly of you. It’s my understanding that spousal investigations comprise the bulk of a private investigator’s caseload.”

  “Maybe for most investigators . . .”

  “But not you.”

  “I’m not big on busting up marriages.”

  “My marriage has already been broken for a long time.”

  “Your husband is very powerful.”

  “So he should be allowed to do whatever he pleases? I sacrificed a lot for that man. I gave him two beautiful children. And my reward is that I’m allowed to be his public face, the warmth he lacks himself, while he lies to me and shows me and our children disrespect.”

  You sacrificed one career in the public eye for another. “Doesn’t that go with the territory?”

  “Touche. But this is no ordinary cheating husband. Myron is a man who trounces his enemies and gets whatever he wants. He’s surrounded himself with yes-men whose careers depend on his success, so they’ll do anything to protect him. I’m just a trophy for his mantel, trotted out to smile for the TV cameras.”

  “Again, I’m sorry. There are plenty of eyes out there who will take this case. I’ll be glad to recommend one, if you like.”

  “You’re not the first one I’ve come to with my problem.”

  Gee, thanks.

  “Three other investigators accepted my retainer, only to tell me I had no case, that my husband is faithful to me.”

  “You don’t believe them?”

  “They were bought off or intimidated. I need someone who follows a code.”

  Her words seeped into his brain like maple syrup. “Have you confronted your husband with your suspicions?”

  “I have. He had me confined to a private medical facility upstate for psychiatric observation for two weeks. He would have kept me there longer, but my disappearance would have raised too many questions. His advisors kept it out of the press and even created a paper trail to show I was vacationing in Europe.”

  Jake had to wonder if she was pulling his leg. Or maybe she really needed the treatment. She certainly exhibited enough nervous traits to support psychological issues. “They held you against your will?”

  “Of course. There was nothing I could do about it. When I made a fuss, they doped me up. To remain clearheaded—to hold on to some part of myself—I had to cooperate. Otherwise I’d still be there, pumped full of God knows what. Those drugs would have made me psychotic for real.”

  Who said anything about being psychotic? “What did you do when you were released?”

  “I told Myron I wanted a divorce.”

  “And . . . ?”

  Marla fixed him with a stare. “He said, ‘You know that I can never let you have a divorce. I’ll never allow that to happen.’ I want you to think about that. In this day and age, what kind of a man believes he has such control over his wife, especially a man who’s a public figure? But you see, Myron has a big family values base, and they would never accept a divorced mayor as their presidential candidate.”

  Jake raised one eyebrow.

  “My husband has grand ambitions, and I’m one piece of his mosaic.”

  He felt her tension rising.

  “Myron’s always secretly admired the gangsters he used to put behind bars. He likes the way they rule with an iron fist and keep their women in line despite their indiscretions. I have no doubt I’ll wind up back in that clinic if I try to leave him. He’s having me followed; I know it. In the mansion, his ‘advisors’ always hover around me. When I leave, it’s in the company of a security detail, for my ‘own good,’ and I have my own handlers to make sure I never speak to the press. I can’t go anywhere without their eyes on me. I ducked out of a department store and took the subway to meet you now. I’m sure the security detail’s going mad.

  “This is why I need a private investigator: I need my life back, and to get it, I need evidence to force Myron into letting me go. Nothing else will work. I came here out of desperation. You’re my only hope. I’m begging you, for the sake of my children, to take this case. Otherwise, I might as well be dead.”

  Jake followed the wide path along Carl Schurz Park facing the East River. Moisture hung heavy in the air, and darkness swirled within the clouds blotting the sky. So far, it had been a wet spring. He and Sheryl had lived only a few blocks from here, and this had been one of her favorite places. He had stopped coming months earlier because such trips had become too painful for him. The Cipher had murdered Sheryl beneath the viaduct less than two hundred yards away from where he now stood. She had been helpless, just like Marla Madigan.

  He had his doubts about taking Marla’s case, though. She exhibited signs of paranoia. It was entirely possible she was delusional. But he sensed genuine fear in her eyes. Still, he had good reason not to touch this case. Myron Madigan had powerful resources at his beck and call.

  “Do you know who Karlin Reichard is?” Marla had said in his office. “He’s a kingmaker. A rich old shipping magnate who’s bankrolled the campaigns of dozens of senators and governors all over the country. And all of his boys won their elections. Karlin too
k an interest in Myron when my husband was a lowly ADA. It’s because of him that Myron became district attorney and then mayor. And it’s because of him that Myron has his sights set on the Oval Office. It can happen. Men with that much money can’t be stopped.”

  Jake had done some quick research on Karlin Reichard after Marla left his office. The man made millions in the shipping business, then millions more on the stock market. Forbes magazine estimated his current net worth at nearly twelve billion dollars, which did indeed make him an attractive figure in political circles, even though he used part of his fortune to remain out of the public eye. Jake knew the type.

  Leaning against the metal railing, with his back to the river and Roosevelt Island, he studied Gracie Mansion through the trees. The two-story structure stood nestled in the park, surrounded by a high fence, facing East End Avenue, off Eighty-eighth Street. The main floor served as a museum open to the public, with the mayor and his family residing upstairs. Uniformed police officers manned an outside security booth, while plainclothes cops made up the security detail. Jake knew this because he had spent six months working the security detail between his tours with SNAP and Special Homicide. He had no trouble picturing the layout of the mansion’s second floor, at least as it had been maintained by Madigan’s two-term predecessor.

  Right now, somewhere on the second floor, Marla lived in fear of her husband. Myron Madigan was a vindictive politician who penalized those who opposed him. Entire neighborhoods suffered when their councilmen refused to toe the line.

  Powerful men. Powerful forces.

  Jake knew he would be risking his livelihood if he stepped into this fire.

  Taking out his cell phone, he pressed the number he had saved earlier.

  A telephone rang once, followed by a beep. No outgoing message identified the voice mail service’s user.

  “This is Jake. I’ve decided to take your case.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I need your help and I couldn’t sleep.”

  Jake glanced at the digital clock beside his bed. He still lived in the small back room behind his office, a situation he hoped to rectify soon. It was just after midnight, and he hadn’t fallen asleep yet. “What is it, Joyce? Is Martin all right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Jake’s muscles tightened. Joyce was an ex-girlfriend of Edgar’s and the mother of his son, Martin. Jake had vowed to take care of them both after Edgar’s transmogrification into a raven. He had made good on that promise for several months, taking an interest in Martin’s education and shooting hoops with the boy, as the two of them had done with Edgar for several years. But a well-paying case had interrupted their routine, then another one and another after that. Jake found himself unable to reject needy clients, and now he felt guilty for ignoring Martin. “What’s wrong?”

  “I got a call from his principal,” Joyce said. “He hasn’t been to class for over a week. Before that, he missed two days a week for two weeks, and before that one day a week for three weeks.”

  Six weeks, Jake thought. Has it been that long?

  No, it’s been longer. He stared at the door that separated the room from his office, where Edgar now lived. “What does he have to say for himself?”

  “Nothing. He won’t talk to me, and when I question him, he throws a fit. I’ve been making him lunch every day, and every morning he heads off for school. I’m at work when he gets out, but when I come home at six, he’s in his bedroom with the door closed. I’m afraid he’s getting into some real trouble.”

  Jake rubbed sleep from his eyes. “What’s for breakfast?”

  Jake saw Joyce framed within the living room window as he parked his Nissan Maxima in the cracked concrete driveway of the two-story Jackson Heights house. He had bought the vehicle brand-new as a replacement for the Chevy Malibu he had destroyed outside One Police Plaza six months earlier. Trotting up the front steps, he saw the front door open. Joyce stood there dressed in a pastel pantsuit for work.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  He kissed her cheek. “Don’t mention it.”

  Moving inside, Jake regretted that Edgar had never made things work out with Joyce. Maybe things would have turned out differently for him. Jake entered the yellow kitchen and sat at the table.

  Joyce served him a plate with fried eggs, sausage, and potatoes. “Welcome to Joyce’s Diner.”

  “It’s been too long since I had a home-cooked meal.” How long? he wondered as he peppered the food. Months before Sheryl’s murder. He had been too busy in homicide and shaking down his informants for drugs to enjoy a quiet meal at home with his wife. Lost opportunities, just like Edgar and Joyce. But at least Joyce had a son to show for their time together. Sampling the potato, he moaned with pleasure.

  “Martin will be down any minute.”

  Jake cut into his eggs. “Then I’d better hurry.”

  He had finished half his breakfast when he heard a staccato of footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Martin appeared in the doorway and froze in his tracks. The boy had grown at least an inch since Jake had last seen him. Is this what it’s like to be a divorced father?

  “Jake . . .” Martin sounded pleasantly surprised. Then he shifted suspicious eyes to his mother.

  Jake tried to sound cheerful. “Hi, Martin.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Jake heard a change in the boy’s voice.

  “He’s here to see you, baby,” Joyce said.

  “I can guess why. And I’m not your baby.”

  He’s definitely grown a chip on his shoulder, too, Jake thought. “Hey, don’t speak to your mother that way.”

  Martin scrunched up his face. “Who are you to tell me what to do? You aren’t my father.”

  “I never said I was. But I am your friend. I always have been. And wherever your father is, he’d want you to treat your mother with respect.”

  “My father’s dead. If he isn’t, then he’s dead to me.”

  Ouch. Martin had changed almost as much as Edgar had. “He’s not dead; I promise you.”

  “Your promises don’t mean shit to me.”

  Joyce let loose an exasperated sigh. “Martin . . .”

  Jake gestured for her to relax. “I hear you’re cutting school.” “So?” Martin eyed Joyce again. “I guess there’s no need to pretend anymore.” Pivoting on one sneaker heel, he stomped into the living room.

  A moment later, Jake heard the front door slam.

  “Teenagers,” Joyce said, massaging her temples. “So sure they know more than we do.”

  “Teenager? Ah, shit. I forgot his birthday.”

  “That’s all right. I know how busy you’ve been . . .”

  Yeah, busy paying off that damned car.

  “Jake, I’m at my wit’s end. Please tell me what to do with that child. I’m so frightened that he’s running around with the wrong crowd, getting himself into trouble. I don’t want him selling drugs, or worse, getting himself killed. He’s all I’ve got.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to him,” Jake said, rising from his chair and entering the living room. “Have you checked his room?”

  Joyce followed him. “Yes, of course. No drugs or weapons.”

  Peering out the window, Jake watched which direction Martin took. “That’s good. What does Martin do when he’s home?”

  “He’s on his computer all night. You know, chat rooms, message boards, that sort of thing.”

  This triggered Jake’s radar. The Internet was a wonderful tool for predators seeking children to prey upon. “Check what sites he spends his time on. Can you get off from work today?”

  “If you think it’s necessary. Aren’t you going to stop him? I thought you were going to talk to him.”

  “Oh, I’ll talk to him, all right. After I’ve seen where he goes.” “You’re going to tail him? He’ll make you for sure in this neighborhood.”

  Jake offered her a reassurin
g smile. “Don’t count on it.”

  Raising the Maxima’s trunk door, Jake traded his leather jacket for a navy peacoat. Next, he pulled on a knit ski cap and a pair of dark sunglasses. As the pièce de resistance, he dabbed spirit gum onto the silicone backing of a reddish handlebar mustache, which he pressed against his face. Closing the trunk, he glanced over his shoulder at Joyce, who stood wide eyed on the steps.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Pocketing the car’s remote control, he set off in the direction Martin had gone. He sighted the boy one block later, walking alone with his hands in his pockets and a headset running to his iPod. At Roosevelt Avenue, Martin climbed the stairs to the Flushing line.

  Jake swiped his MetroCard through the turnstile slot, then followed his subject up another flight of metal stairs. He joined the crowd on the platform, about twenty-five feet away from Martin, who continued listening to his iPod. Morning rush hour commuters stood shoulder to shoulder, front to back, breathing and sweating on each other.

  He’s not moving his body, Jake noted. Kids tended to bob their heads or shuffle from side to side when they listened to music. He’s listening to something else. Martin took no notice of him.

  The headlights of a train appeared in the distance, and the Number 7 pulled into the station accompanied by the sound of screeching metal. Commuters filled the train, packing it like canned vegetables. Martin boarded a car in the middle, so Jake pushed his way into the front of the same car. Twenty people separated them, the distance negligible. Like most of the other straphangers, Martin stared straight ahead, not really focusing on anyone as the train left the station. The New Yorkers avoided each other’s gazes, averting their eyes whenever they accidentally made contact.

  Jake felt liberated behind his shades, free to survey the dense mixture of ethnicities, professionals, blue-collar workers, and students. He swayed from side to side, curious to see where this ride would take him.