Witchblade: Talons

by John Dechancie

  “And he does magic?”

  “As black as his skin.” Baba thought about it for a mo­ment. “His skin is not so dark, actually. But you know what I mean.”

  “Have you talked with him about doing magic?”

  “No. I never talk with him.”

  “I see. But you know he does magic.”

  “I see the light around him. Like you.”

  “Oh, I understand. You simply . . . intuited . . . uh, you saw the light.”

  “Yes. The magic light. He does evil magic. Sometimes. I don’t think he is evil. He is just a boy, really. But he does dangerous things.”

  “There’s some danger in using this evil magic?”

  “Oh, my God, yes. Danger. The things, they come from Hell, and they do what you want, but then . . . ah, but then . . .” Baba chuckled.

  “So this black person . . . what’s his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It would help if I had his name.”

  “People don’t tell me their names. I mind my own business.”

  “I see. Baba, do you know what kind of business your grandson is in?”

  “Oil. He has men drive oil truck.”

  “Yes. Did you know . . .” Sara turned and looked out the window. This was useless. She rose and smiled at Baba. “Thank you, Madame Kontra. Baba.”

  “Beautiful girl. Why do you dress like farm worker?”

  “I’ve always been a tomboy.”

  “What is that? Why don’t you wear a dress? You would look so pretty in nice dress.”

  “Sometimes I do.”

  “All the time, in Romania, they make women dress like men. The Communists liked that. I told them, I will work like dog, but I won’t dress like man. That is wrong.”

  “Sure. Listen, thank you very much for talking to me. I’ll let myself out.”

  The old woman got to her feet. She seemed to have life in her, for all that her skin looked like the Dead Sea Scrolls. “You are wanted by many spirits.”

  Sara looked over her shoulder as she advanced toward the door. “That so? By whom, exactly?”

  “Strange spirits. I do not know them.”

  “Good or evil?” Sara asked as she opened the door.

  “I don’t know. I would tell you if I knew. I like you. You would make my grandson good wife if this one dies. Good wife.”

  “Uh . . . thank you. I think.”

  She went out and eased the door shut.

  * * *

  Sara stood at her desk, which was a mess. As usual. It was piled with printouts, reports, memos, bulletins, and endless other species of paperwork.

  “Why can’t you tell me?” she demanded.

  She pressed the phone tighter to her ear, trying to block out the sound of the radio that someone insisted on playing full blast in his office. “What do you mean, ‘need-to-know basis’? What’s that supposed to mean? Are we talking about classified secrets, here?”

  Jake McCarthy walked into the squad room with two civilians in tow, a middle-aged couple. Both were well-dressed and looked well-to-do. He saw that Sara was on the phone. “This is Detective Pezzini. She might be able to help you. She was the arresting officer.”

  The man said, “Thank you.”

  Jake exited. Sara was looking at the visitors out of the corner of one eye. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah. If that’s how it is.” She hung up and turned to face them. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” the man said. “You were the officer who was present when my son died?”

  “Your son?”

  “I’m Ross Bromley. Charles Bromley was my son. Charles Morton Bromley, the Second? He was named after his grandfather.”

  Sara started. “Oh. Oh, yes. I knew him by another name.”

  “Yes. ‘Kool Whip,’ I believe.” Bromley sighed. “He . . . Charles lived on the street, didn’t he? At least, he ended up there. He graduated from college, did you know that?”

  “I wasn’t aware.”

  “He studied art. He was quite a good sculptor, so they tell me.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, he studied it in school. He started with painting but he decided it was—what was his phrase?—an ‘effete art form.’ He liked to work in metal. He had a show. Oh, this was quite a while ago.”

  “A show,” Sara said. “Sculpture.”

  “Quite a while ago. Ten years. He was very young. And then he . . .”

  “He got into drugs,” the mother said.

  “And he sort of fell apart. What we wanted to ask—”

  “I’m very sorry,” Sara blurted. “It was a tragic thing, your son’s death.”

  “Thank you,” Bromley said. “We wanted to know if he said anything before he threw himself off the balcony.”

  “Threw himself?”

  “Well, that’s what the letter from the police department said. It made it sound like suicide. That he threw himself off and killed himself.”

  “Oh. It wasn’t quite like that. He fell. It was an accident.”

  “Well, the letter was really very unclear about that. It used the word accident, but the way it described what happened . . .”

  “We just couldn’t believe it,” the mother said. “Not our Charlie. He was so full of life. When he was a boy . . .”

  “We’re not going to sue,” the father said sternly. “We wanted to tell you that. Our society is being torn apart by litigation. Entirely too much legalistic folderol. We realize that Charles was in part culpable. We support the police.”

  “But we wanted to know if he said anything before he died,” the mother said. “And he died so horribly. We want to know if he suffered.”

  “I don’t think he did,” Sara said evenly. “It was over very quickly. He didn’t have time to say anything. The whole thing was an unfortunate accident. I’m truly very sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Bromley.”

  “Thank you,” the father said. “Uh, your name again? I’m sorry.”

  “Sara Pezzini.”

  “Thank you, Officer Pezzini,” the mom said. “Can I ask exactly how you came to know our son?”

  “He . . . worked with us. He helped us out on occasion. With tips, information.”

  “Oh, so he helped the police?” Mrs. Bromley asked.

  “Yes, he did.”

  She smiled. “We didn’t know that. He actually helped the police department?”

  “He did a good job. I also saw his sculpture. He was very talented.”

  “He was,” the mother said, glowing inside. A single tear had welled up, and it hung at the corner of her eye like a tiny diamond. “He was so talented.”

  When they left, Sara felt as if she had shrunk a few inches during the conversation.

  She got back on the phone.

  “One bam!”

  “Two crack!”

  These Chinese played Mah Jongg with a vengeance. Fast, and tiles face down, announced once and then hidden for the rest of the hand. Not American style, where they lie face up. You had to have a good memory and keep your ears open. And lots of money to get a seat at the table. At a buck a point, this was no game for amateurs.

  Merlin looked at his tiles. He was waiting for one tile, a white dragon. He had a red and green. A white would give him a rare hand, one worth many points. Dragons were not often discarded, but sometimes a player had no choice but to discard, if he had only one and no match.

  Chen was smiling at him. “You haven’t put up any tiles? You must be working on something, or trying for a completely hidden hand.”

  “I like to play it close to the vest,” Merlin said.

  “I like the way you play,” Chen said, picking up a tile. “You play fast. Not like most Americans.”

  “I’m having trouble keeping up with you guys. Thanks for sticking to English most of the time.”

  “Least we can do. This is a friendly game. As I said, I think you’ll enjoy working with us. You’re very talented and knowledgeable. We can make a lot of money in the east. Hong Kong is still a wide-open c
ity.”

  “I’m sure. What wind are we on?”

  “North. This is the last hand, Merlin.”

  “Ah. Okay, thanks. Is it my turn?”

  “Yes.”

  Merlin took a tile from the Wall, looked at it, and set it down. “Six bamboo.”

  “Got it,” the player to Merlin’s right announced. He took the tile and matched it up with two more of its like on his rack. The triplet was worth only two points, but it was good towards Mah Jongg.

  “I hear,” Merlin said, “that the mainland government is being very cooperative with business. They don’t want to kill the goose, so to speak.”

  “That is completely right. We have many contacts in Peking. Most people don’t think that would be the case.”

  “Seems natural to me,” Merlin said.

  “You have no problem with that, then?” Chen asked.

  “Not in the least. I like the sound of your money.”

  “You’ll find us much more generous than our Russian colleagues.”

  “They’re pretty tight with a ruble. Or a dollar, I should say.”

  “Then we have a deal?” Chen asked.

  “White dragon,” said the player in the East position, and put down a tile. Merlin grabbed it. There was no dragon on the white tile; just a black border. A white dragon is invisible in snow.

  “Mah Jongg!” Merlin peeled.

  “Very good!” Chen said amiably.

  Merlin put up his tiles.

  Chen’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my God.”

  Merlin laid out one of each dragon, one of each wind, one each of suit in terminals.

  “Fourteen Noble Scholars!” Chen exclaimed in genuine amazement. “I’ve seen that hand only one other time in my life!”

  “I was dealt most of it,” Merlin said with pride. “I had to draw only three tiles, but had to wait forever for that last dragon.”

  “Amazing,” Chen said. “Well, that’s a limit hand. And limit for this club is a thousand points. You’ve just won three thousand dollars. Thank Confucius you weren’t East. You would have cleaned us out.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  As she drove farther out into the countryside, Sara couldn’t get some thoughts out of her mind. The general way the department handled informants sometimes bothered her. How many times had her division used the squeeze, threatening an informant with an indictment unless he or she cooperated? Sometimes the informant had to place his life on the line, risk retaliation, retribution. A few times such an informant had paid with his life. The squeeze was an oft-used tool of the district attorney’s office, with the police implementing. She had always hated it. For all that informants were usually low-life scum, they had rights, too. She felt a general, all-purpose guilt over Charlie Bromley’s death. The specifics didn’t apply. She hadn’t squeezed him, but she could not get shed of doubts about the ethics of standard police tactics.

  It was a cold day, the first really cold day of fall. Clouds drifted like smoke across a white sky broken only by bare trees. She urged the little subcompact along a two-lane road, hayfields at either shoulder. She was far into Connecticut, and if she drove half an hour more, she’d be in Massachusetts.

  Obeying directions given at a convenience store a few miles back, she bore left at the next intersection and took a narrow oil-and-gravel road. She was looking for a small farm owned by a family named Paunescu. That was the name on the list of Kontra’s “Known Associates (Possible Non-Combatants).” People he did business with but were not soldiers in the Organizatiya. The Paunescu family lived on the farm, but did not own it. They lived rent free; nevertheless, they were virtual tenants. They did whatever Kontra needed of them. Kontra’s name was not to be found on the deed or any legal title to the land, but he was lord of every acre. The Paunescus were, in effect, his serfs.

  At least that was her theory. And it was a pretty good theory. These absentee-owner farms, the fiefdoms of an ethnic rainbow of gangs, lay all over the tri-state area. They served various purposes: hideouts, storage facilities, and potter’s fields for the dead bodies of people who would never be seen again by kith or kin.

  Thank God she knew someone in the district attorney’s office. Guy who’d been wanting to date her for years. She hoped she didn’t have to return the favor someday. He was nice, but hardly her type. Another reason to feel guilty.

  The Paunescus’ farm had been on that list, and its location. She was taking an awful chance.

  Siry would kill her if he found out. She knew he would eventually. She wondered if she subconsciously liked it when she ran afoul of him, if she relished the attention that got her. The daddy’s-little-girl syndrome again?

  She pushed it from her mind.

  Besides, she’d missed the dirt road she was looking for. She hit the brakes and turned around. As she did, a few lone snowflakes drifted past the windshield. This early? Then she glanced at the date on her watch and realized how much of the month had melted away. Winter was almost here.

  She saw now that she’d driven past a narrow dirt road that debouched onto the pavement behind some tall weeds. The lone sentinel of a mailbox stood beside it. The lettering read PAUNESCU. She turned in.

  The road was rutty but passable. Gravel bounced off the undercarriage. The road wound through tall trees interspersed with brambles of brown underbrush. Tufts of green appeared here and there, last remnants of summer making a stand, and here and there branches hung festooned with colorful fall foliage.

  A single red leaf fluttered to the hood and blew off.

  Fog began to gather. Fast, as if on cue, it coalesced and transformed crisp air to thick, heavy soup. She slowed the car. A farmhouse appeared ahead, something behind it. Another house, or a barn? It was bigger than the main house. Or the rear house was the main house.

  She pulled up to the end of the driveway and parked beside an aging foreign pickup. She got out. The place, of dirty white siding with faded blue shutters, was a little run down, but looked comfortable in a squalid kind of way. This was no prosperous farm, if farm it really was. Junk littered a side yard. She looked it over. The obligatory rusting pickup with attendant old refrigerators.

  She mounted the rickety porch and knocked on the door. After some activity inside, it opened, and a man in his forties poked his head out.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Paunescu?”

  “You probably want my father. He owns the place. He’s not well. Can I help you?”

  “Is Mr. Kontra here?”

  The man, rather sallow-faced and thin, acquired a blank look. “Who?”

  “Is that his house in the back?”

  “Place has been empty for years,” he said.

  “Does your father own it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really? And you live in this place?”

  “It’s mainly for hunters. Weekenders, that sort of thing. My dad rents it out. Who may I ask are you?”

  “I’m a New York City police officer, looking for Mr. Lazlo Kontra. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Is he a friend of your father’s?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Could he be currently renting the back place?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s rented the back place for a while. I haven’t seen a car parked there. My father doesn’t tell me his business. Sorry.”

  “You live here and don’t know if anyone’s renting the place?”

  “Haven’t been back there for a while.”

  “You do live here?” Sara asked.

  “Yes, with my parents. They’re getting old, and I take care of the place, more or less. Look, what’s this all about, if I can ask?”

  “I’m simply looking for him. Had trouble getting in touch with him lately.”

  His eyebrows drew together suspiciously. “Do you have a search warrant?”

  “This isn’t an official visit. I’m a friend of his.”

  “Really? Oh. Well, you’re aski
ng a lot of questions. Only my father can answer, and he’s sleeping. He shouldn’t be disturbed. As I said, he’s sick. His heart.”

  “Is your mother here?”

  “No. She’s visiting relatives. Sorry. I’ll tell my father you dropped by.”

  “Mind if I look the place over?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “I was thinking about renting a place in the country. For weekends.”

  The man was reluctant, but didn’t want to appear evasive. “I guess you can look around.”

  “Thanks.”

  He poked his head out the door. “Weather’s turning bad. Looks like snow.”

  “Yeah, it’s starting to come down. I’ll just look the place over and leave. Sorry to bother you.”

  “Okay.”

  She walked around the back of the place. More junk, but it had an ordered look to it. A large vegetable garden lay on the outskirts of a neglected lawn. A few hardy plants still grew in it, onions and such.

  The house in back was farther away than she’d first thought. It stood on a rise that sloped away rapidly to deep woods. She stuck to the trees as she walked around the right side. There was a vehicle parked behind the house, a black late-model SUV.

  The house was one of those modern log constructions, but was hardly a cabin. It looked to have at least ten rooms, all on one floor. A huge fieldstone chimney dominated the rear. A big deck patio ran off sliding glass doors and massive windows at the other end of the house.

  She sneaked up on a small back window and looked in. The lights were on inside a bedroom that looked to have been converted to an office. A young black man sat at a compact workstation typing on a desktop computer. She’d never seen the young man before, but could guess who he was. Another man, a husky type with the look of a street hood, sat in an easy chair on the other side of the room reading a slick men’s magazine. He had the centerfold out and was studying it intently.

  She peeked in. Almost instantly, the black man turned and saw her. He made no reaction other than to shift his eyes to the zine-reading gunsel. Then he looked at her again, at first quizzical, then pleading, his eyebrows communicating something. What was he trying to say? To Sara it looked as though he were warning, Watch out.

  Sara flattened herself against the log exterior.