by Mike Nappa
“Okay. I’ll let you know when I hear anything. Now, you said you had something you needed to talk about?”
Trudi filled him in on the meeting with Viktor Kostiuk—conveniently leaving out the parts about which restaurant she’d met him at or why she’d been alone at the table when Viktor came by.
“Kostiuk.” He frowned. “I know that name. It’s a family implicated with an offshoot of the Ukrainian Mafia up north, New York I think. Maybe Massachusetts. I’d have to check. There was a rumor not long ago that they were looking to make a move down south, but I didn’t think Georgia was a target for them. I would have guessed Florida. I can look in to it, though. And you say this Kostiuk guy is affiliated with Councilman Roman?”
“Says he’s a political consultant from New York. Working to make Max Roman the next mayor of Atlanta.”
“You think he’s got something to do with Nevermore?”
“I’m not sure. But here’s what I do know: Somehow he’s gotten ahold of a rare copy of the January 29, 1845, issue of the New York Evening Mirror.”
Samuel looked blank. “Good for him?”
“It’s the original publication of Edgar Allan Poe’s poem ‘The Raven.’”
It took only about a second and a half for Samuel to make the same connection Trudi had made. “And he’s auctioning it off at a high-profile political fundraiser, right here in Atlanta? Yeah. That could be something. A terrorist attack there would certainly make headlines.”
“Now,” Trudi had said, “ask me where he got the magazine. Who donated it to their cause.”
“Who?”
“Sister Bliss’s Secret Stash.”
Empty air filled the room.
“He got the magazine from Mama Bliss?” Samuel said at last. “Where did she—well, never mind. She deals in antique-everything over there. She could have easily brought it into the store, who knows when.”
“December 18, 2009. She bought it then.”
“What’s it worth?”
“Hard to tell at this point. Mama bought it at a private auction, and I couldn’t pry loose the amount she paid. But at a public auction in 2005, a first-edition copy of Poe’s book The Raven and Other Poems sold for $54,000. In 2009, a nicer first edition of that book auctioned for a whopping $182,500, so you can see there’s potential for big money in this. Mama’s magazine is not a book, but it’s still very rare. At auction today, I’m guessing it’d sell at somewhere between $100,000 and $150,000.”
“Hmm. Pretty big investment from a retail standpoint,” Samuel said. “And Mama Bliss usually turns over her store’s stock reasonably fast. If it doesn’t sell in the Stash, she’s got a team who’ll sell slow-moving items online, or sometimes she’ll just send things off to an auction house herself. So why keep this really expensive, obscure magazine for so long?”
“Maybe she bought it for herself and not the store?”
“And now she’s tired of it and decides to just donate a big-money item like that to a political fundraiser?”
“Well, technically, she donated it to the Atlanta Society for Literary Arts. They’re the organization sponsoring the fundraising dinner for Max Roman. They’re combining the political event with a charity auction for their organization. Two birds with one stone, I guess.”
“But Mama Bliss hates politics. Says it’s repugnant and corrupt. She avoids it like a deadly peanut allergy. Why would she get involved with Max Roman’s mayoral campaign?”
“She’s fairly community-minded. Maybe she’s on the board of directors for ASLA and they asked for donations?”
“All right,” he said, standing. “I’ll go talk to Mama. See what I can find out.”
“Samuel, wait.”
“What is it?”
“Think about what you’re about to do. If you go gallivanting over to Mama Bliss’s and accuse her of being part of some homegrown terrorist plot in Little Five Points, how do you think she’s going to respond?”
“Mm. Well, I wouldn’t actually be accusing her. I’ve known Mama for a long time. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t . . . well . . .”
“Look, Samuel, we both know that Sister Bliss’s Secret Stash has more secrets than your everyday retail location. You know more about that than I do, but the point is, we’re talking about Mama Bliss. She deserves our trust, not our accusations.”
“Maybe Mama’s not even aware that there could be a connection,” he said. “Maybe she just felt like donating something special to a charity. Or maybe it’s just a wild goose chase, a red herring, and talking to Mama will clear up all our concerns.”
“Sure. Maybe.”
“So what are you suggesting? That I ignore her connection to this magazine?”
Trudi saw the stubborn little boy creeping into Samuel’s narrowing eyes. “No, of course not,” she said. “Let’s just take it slowly instead of running around like a couple of bulls in a china shop.”
Samuel had grinned at that, and at first Trudi hadn’t known why.
“What?” she’d said. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing funny. I’m just glad to hear that you’re on the case with me. It’ll be a little bit like old times.” He sat down again.
“I never—” Trudi stopped herself and replayed her last comments in her mind. Let’s just take it slowly . . . Let’s, as in “Let us.” Without really knowing it, she’d started thinking of Samuel’s case as one of her own. As theirs together. Us.
Well, that’s interesting.
“All right,” Samuel had said. “We’ll take it slow. But we should keep tabs on what goes on over at the Secret Stash for a few days. You up for a stakeout or two?”
And so, a few minutes after a humid Friday had begun in Little Five Points, Trudi had found herself parked in a car with her ex-husband, staring down the darkened street at the back warehouse entrance to Sister Bliss’s Secret Stash, watching a lazy security guard get lost in his thoughts while smoking a cigarette.
It was then that the guy on the bicycle had caught Trudi’s eye. He was of medium build, wiry, with short and spiky hair. It had taken a minute for her to recognize him, but once she did, she couldn’t mistake him for anyone else.
“Samuel,” she’d said, smacking her ex-husband’s shoulder with the palm of her hand. “Check this out.”
They both watched him dismount and then hide his bicycle out of view from the entrance to the warehouse. He then stepped into the shadows and crouched, watching and apparently waiting.
“Any idea who that is?” Samuel had said.
“Yeah,” she’d said grimly. “That’s the guy whose fingerprints I gave you to match.”
“I’ve seen that bicycle before,” Samuel said. “Twice this week while we’ve been on stakeouts. Once on Wednesday afternoon. And again yesterday after closing time.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Didn’t seem important. Just some random guy riding by the Stash. I thought maybe he lived around here or something.”
“You met him in my office last Friday. You didn’t recognize him?”
He’d shrugged. “I meet a lot of people, Trudi. And I’ve been kind of busy lately, trying to stop a terrorist plot and all.”
They’d spent a few silent moments watching The Raven watch the Secret Stash.
“Wait a minute,” Samuel had said suddenly, and he’d sat up so fast he bumped his head on the dangling visor in Trudi’s Ford Focus. “That’s the guy I met at your office last Friday?”
In the darkness, he couldn’t see Trudi roll her eyes. “Are you sure you’re a detective, Samuel? Because sometimes you’re pretty slow.”
He turned to face her, and the corners of his lips twitched upward. “So that’s Marv Deasy? The guy who was supposed to be your date last Friday night?” He emphasized the word date.
“I . . . what . . . how do you know about that?” Trudi felt heat rising into her cheeks. Had Samuel seen her at Eclipse di Luna, after all?
“I’m a detective. I know things.” He relaxed back
in his seat, a look of triumph on his face. “Have a good time?”
“None of your business. And how did you—oh, never mind.”
“Yep. I have friends everywhere.”
“Eulalie’s got a big mouth.”
He just grinned.
Trudi had wanted to ask him about Eulalie then, wanted to say, So, how about you? Did you and Eula have a nice date? But she’d stopped herself. It still felt off-limits to her, like she’d be prying in an area that was none of her business, not really. Her stomach clenched inside her anyway. She’d turned her attention back to The Raven instead.
And then one security guard had started his perimeter walk, and moments later, the other had left his post, wandered around the corner of the warehouse, and started chain-smoking his way into irrelevance.
Samuel had sat up again when The Raven made his move. The street magician had crept like a cat, silent and shadowed, and slipped into the open warehouse door with remarkable ease. The security guard didn’t even know he existed, let alone that The Raven had just walked into his fortress.
“So,” Samuel had said after a moment, “Marv Deasy can now be arrested and charged with breaking and entering. I think I can move your fingerprint check up on the priority list.”
He’d taken out his cell and started tapping out a message. Trudi assumed he was putting a little heat into the email box of a data tech at the police station, something to greet him or her when that person arrived at work later on this Friday morning. Samuel put away his cell and leaned back in his seat, trying unsuccessfully to get more comfortable.
“Good thing we’re already stalking your new boyfriend. That’ll make things go faster if he is involved in Nevermore.”
Trudi’s eyes had narrowed at the mention of her “boyfriend.” There were a lot of things she wanted to say to her ex-husband, and some things she wanted to hear from him too. But at the moment, none of them were ready to be spoken.
“This isn’t stalking,” Trudi had said to the passenger seat instead. “I’m not a stalker.”
25
Bliss
Atlanta, GA
Little Five Points
Friday, March 31, 12:20 a.m.
14 days to Nevermore
“If you’re going to attack me, now’s the time.”
Mama Bliss rolled on her hip and let her legs drop over the edge of the bed until her feet touched the floor. The intruder stood just inside the door, now closed, waiting for further instructions. He held his drill in one hand, dangling to the side like a useless weapon. With the light on in the room, Bliss decided she liked this boy’s look. He was young and lean, but handsome in the way that today’s kids were. She thought she’d see fear in his face but found only sadness there instead.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said.
“I’m just saying that when I switch over from this bed to my chair, there’ll be a split second when my hands will be occupied. You might get to me and conk me on the head or something. I’ll probably get off one shot at least, maybe two, but my aim will be bad since we’ll both be moving. So if you’re going to attack, better make it now. At least then I’ll have a bruise to show the police when they’re looking at your dead body.”
Something about that struck him as funny. She watched his lips twitch and thought she saw relief in the way his eyebrows relaxed above his eyes.
“I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
She heard Michael Jackson’s soprano voice sing unexpectedly through his lips, then she saw his right leg twist and spin in the familiar MJ arc—just for good measure, she supposed. She snorted in spite of herself. “Well, at least you’ve got a sense of humor,” she said. “Pretty good impersonation too. So, what? Are you Ivory and I’m Ebony?”
Now it was his turn to snicker.
Bliss paused and looked at him. There was something about this boy, this young man. But no, he clearly was not to be trusted. She hefted her weight toward the edge of the bed, preparing to make the short leap from bed to wheelchair, holding the gun precariously in her right hand.
“Would you like some help, ma’am?” he said, and doggone it if Bliss didn’t believe he was sincere.
“You just go sit in one of those chairs over there,” she said, directing him to the small lunch table on the other side of the office. After he took a seat and placed his drill on the table in front of him, she slid into her wheelchair and faced him again. He hadn’t moved while she’d been making the transition, something that made her grateful, for his sake. If he’d come at her, she would have killed him. That smoke-blowing about how this would be the right time to attack was just a test. She wanted to see if he meant harm—and if he was stupid.
Of course she’d been ready to shoot while making the transition from bed to chair. She was no stranger to handguns. It had been thirty-seven years since William had first put a pistol in her hand and taught her to use it, and twenty-seven since they’d begun importing and exporting firearms through the Secret Stash. That meant her little Beretta was as comfortable to her as a glove on a cold day. She didn’t want to kill the boy, but if it had been necessary, she certainly had enough skill, and will, to end a man quickly.
Thankfully this boy wasn’t stupid enough to try an attack at this point.
Bliss rolled her chair behind the desk, feeling the comfort that came with putting furniture between herself and an adversary. Any obstacle between you and danger was a good thing, she figured. She regarded the intruder now with a different kind of interest, like a lion-tamer assessing a cub for the first time. For his part, he seemed just as comfortable sitting there as anywhere else.
“You have a name?” she said.
He hesitated. Then, “Well, I’ve got several. What’s your preference?”
“What’s your daddy call you?”
He grimaced, and Bliss recognized that look. “Fine, forget about your daddy, then,” she said. “What do people ’round here call you when you’re not breaking into their private work and living spaces?”
“The Raven.”
She cocked her head to the side. Was he kidding? “You best explain that one to me. Mama Bliss is old, and it’s late at night. She ain’t ready for another mystery so soon on the heels of your arrival.”
“I’m a deception specialist. A magician, I guess. I work for tips out in Freedom Park and Piedmont Park. The Raven is my performance name, and most people still call me that when I’m not performing too.” He shrugged. “But you can call me anything you like.”
“Magician? You any good?”
He shrugged again.
“Show me a magic trick, Mr. Raven.”
“How about the one where I keep you from shooting me in the testicles?” He grinned unexpectedly at her, and she suddenly knew what it was about this young man that caught her so.
“Good trick,” she said, unable to avoid returning the smile. Inside, she felt a familiar ache. She opened a drawer on the right side of her desk and set the BU9 Nano pistol inside it but didn’t close the drawer. “I don’t think I need this anymore, do I?”
He shook his head and looked grateful. “So,” he said, “what’s next?”
Bliss leaned back in her wheelchair and put her hands on the armrests. What’s next? she wondered. What do I do now that I’ve caught me a crooked bird?
“Do you want me to leave?” he said.
Bliss found herself shaking her head. “You’re free to go if you want,” she said. “I won’t stop you. But I am curious about you now, Raven.”
“Like I said, I got no place else to go.” He sighed, and she watched his face wince as if he felt pain somewhere in his body.
“No family?”
He shook his head. “Not anymore. My fault, not theirs.”
“I got no family, either,” Bliss said. “Everybody’s fault. My husband up and died without my permission twenty-some years ago. Aneurysm. One minute he was sweeping trash off the front porch, next he was lying in the rubbish, pawing at his head, and then gone
.”
“I’m sorry.”
Bliss looked at him and thought he actually meant it.
“Anyway, my daughter ran off into the world, and my grandson—” She stopped herself. Old woman, she commanded, you best not cry in front of this two-bit thief. “Anyway, he’s gone too.”
“It’s hard. I know.”
“You remind me of him.”
“Who?”
“My grandson. Davis. Something about you is like him.” Maybe your smile. Maybe the promise that anything is possible and there’s nothing to be afraid of, not really. All that hidden inside your smile.
“So he was a good-looking dude, that’s what you’re saying? Big, strong, and handsome?”
Bliss laughed in spite of herself. It felt warm, comfortable—a strange feeling considering the circumstances of this midnight conversation.
“So,” she said after a moment, “why you here? What’s in my office that you got to have so bad you want to steal it?”
“I don’t really know what it’s about,” he said slowly. “Just that there’s a logbook in a safe somewhere in here.”
Bliss felt her face harden. So that was it. “Max Roman sent you.”
His eyes searched hers, trying to understand what was going on. Then he said, “Yeah, sort of. I’m supposed to steal your logbook and give it to one of his people at five o’clock today. But I didn’t know you’d be in here when I came in.”
“So the power drill, that’s what it’s for? You’re this big-time magician and the best you can do for safecracking is drill through the lock?”
“Never had to break into a safe before. They told me to bring a cordless drill, so I brought a cordless drill.”
Going to have to get a new safe. Bliss made a mental note. One that’s drill-proof.
“How much they pay you for this service?” she asked.
His face dropped. “Nothing. And everything.”
She let her eyes wander over the thief in her office, trying to make sense of that statement. Then she saw the small bandage on his left hand. He had a thumb, three fingers, and then that bandage in the spot where his last finger should have been.
Fresh wound. She pursed her lips. “How much you owe them?”
