Witchblade: Talons

by John Dechancie

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought so. Look, these guys were making me do the stuff. Extortion. I had no choice.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Computer scams. I did some stuff for them. They liked it, and wanted more. Lots more. They wouldn’t leave me alone. No one seems to be able to leave me alone, ever.”

  “I have a suggestion,” Sara said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “I second the motion.”

  “By the way, what’s your name? I like to know who my partners in crime are.”

  “Merlin Jones.”

  As they headed south, the snow turned to rain and the road became a wet mirror.

  It was not long before they were back in the more affluent areas of Connecticut. Huge mansions rolled past, some of the highest-priced real estate in the country.

  “You don’t think the guy in the house will talk?” Jones asked.

  “Don’t know. He’s spent his life not talking to the police. Runs in the family. He might tell about me, might not. If they think he did it, and start to squeeze, he might blab. But I can’t see why they’d think he did it. They’d go for the bear theory. If there are any bears in Connecticut, which I somehow doubt.”

  “I think there are.”

  “Whatever. Of course, I don’t know what they’ll make of Vladimir. Spontaneous combustion? A dragon loose?”

  Merlin looked sharply at her. Then his gaze drifted out

  the window.

  “Does that mean something to you?” Sara asked.

  He shrugged. “I play Mah Jongg occasionally.”

  “Mah Jongg?”

  “Yeah. Dragons. Red, green, white. You can’t see white dragons in snow.”

  “I know nothing about the game. Never played it.”

  “Yeah, well in the States it’s usually played by ladies of the club, that sort. But in China it’s a man’s game. Fast and furious and for lots of money.”

  “They play it in Chinatown?”

  “Sure.”

  “And do you have any Chinatown connections?”

  “That’s how I ran afoul of Kontra. I refused to work for him, and the Triad courted me. I let them. All Kontra wanted to run were scams that the cyberpolice have been onto for years. He was going to get me busted, for sure. All he was about was money. He didn’t appreciate the finer points. He didn’t see it as the art it is.”

  “Hacking?”

  “Yeah, hacking. He didn’t appreciate the man-machine interface, you know? The cybernetic future dream. He didn’t appreciate anything. And he didn’t want to pay me what I was worth.”

  “It wasn’t like the novels, was it?”

  “Not really. It’s just stealing. I know that. But . . . these guys, they just want to take.”

  “That’s what they’re into, Merlin. You didn’t realize that?”

  “I copped to it pretty early. I don’t really need them, except . . . well, I had trouble paying the rent on time. I mean, in New York City, they bust your bank account for a pad the size of a closet. Kontra got me this big apartment, he made it easy. But he didn’t pay me anything. Or anything substantial.”

  “You say you don’t need them. Why don’t you just rake in millions on your own?”

  “It’s not that easy. Most hackers aren’t rich. Quite the opposite. We don’t need that much money, really. But to make big money you need connections. You need money laundering. You need guys in Europe and Malaysia, overseas banks, all that stuff. Kontra had guys who could take the stuff I gave them and turn it into lots of cash. But the Triad will pay me what I’m worth.”

  “I don’t know, Merlin. Seems to me some company could pay you one hell of a good salary for your skills. Ever consider going legit?”

  “I do some work for legitimate companies, on a con­sultant basis. Sometimes.”

  “Like for who?”

  “Irons International. I’ve done some work for Mr. Irons himself.”

  Sara was silent for a mile or two.

  “Let’s see if we can sum it up,” she finally said. “Werewolves, dragons, Gypsy women . . .”

  “Huh?”

  “Kontra’s grandmother.”

  “Oh, God, her. Like something out of a cult movie.”

  “Romanians, Russians. Werewolves. Dragons. Put it all together . . . wait. And another thing.”

  She fell silent again. The rain-slick road rolled by as Merlin regarded her.

  “Yeah?”

  “Know anything about a big bird?”

  Merlin chuckled. “Right. The Horror That Came to Sesame Street.”

  “Big bird in the sky. Coming out of a computer.”

  “Weird. What’s that shit about?”

  “You tell me. You’re the magician.”

  “I do Kabbala. I mean, I study Kabbala. Numerology, mystical stuff. I do mandalas in Photo Shop. There’s some really neat stuff . . .”

  “I’ve heard of it. I mean, Kabbalistic magic. Know practically nothing about it. And mandalas . . .”

  “From Sanskrit mysticism. I like to mix different ancient hermetic traditions. That’s the kind of stuff I’m interested in. Ancient magic rituals, gods, spirits, demiurges. Fascinating stuff. I’ve been into it for years.”

  “Ever run into bird spirits?”

  “Oh, of course. Many bird images in the ancient lore. The ibis-headed god of Egypt. That sort of thing.”

  “So what does it all mean? And what does Irons have to do with it?”

  “He’s interested in magic. Ancient lore.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sara said, nodding.

  “You know him?” Merlin wanted to know.

  Sara nodded. “I do.”

  “Then you know he appreciates the finer things. He appreciates me.”

  “That’s nice. You like the finer things. Like what, for instance?”

  “Art. I do art. Computer art, now. I started in oils long time ago. Studied it in school. But the computer’s the greatest artist’s brush to come along in years. Hasn’t caught on in the academy yet.”

  “You’re an artist?” Sara said. “Techno-nerd and artist. Not a common combo.”

  “Watch that ‘nerd’ stuff. I’m no nerd. I’m an artist of the Two Cultures that C. P. Snow talked about. Science and Art. Double-threat guy. That’s me. I have things in mind, projects. Things never dreamed before. Works of art that . . . you have no idea.”

  “I’d be interested in hearing about them. Were you afraid that Kontra would kill you?”

  “He knew he needed me. That was my hold over him. There are lots of hackers, but none of ’em can do what I do. I’m good, if I do say so myself.”

  “Just what kind of stuff were you doing in the magical area? Spells?”

  “My stuff is New Age. It’s modern, hip. No potions, no gypsy voodoo. It’s just good luck-bad luck stuff. You increase your numerological odds, you stack the metaphysical deck in your favor.”

  “What’s the bad luck part?”

  “That’s a weapon, sort of.”

  “Weapon?”

  “Yeah. For your enemies. It’s basic magic. You stack the deck in your favor and against your enemies’ best in­terests. The effects can range from mild to lethal.”

  “Lethal?”

  “Yeah, but I never do that. That involves invoking dark forces. I never do that. I just put a . . . well, you could call it a curse. You could call it bad karma. Or nonoptimal feng shui.”

  “A curse isn’t so modern,” Sara said. “And who’s say you didn’t inadvertently invoke something you ought not to have invoked?”

  “That’s where the computer comes in. Precision. It’s the modern magician’s tool. I’ve pioneered this stuff. It’s my technology. I’m the George Washington Carver of computer magic.”

  “So you put curses on people who get in your way.”

  “Who mean to do me harm,” Jones said hotly. “Are you kidding? Of course I do. No law against it.”

  “Nope. No law. Except the moral one.”
/>
  “ ‘Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.’ ”

  “Who said that?” Sara asked.

  “Alistair Crowley.”

  “He was a wholesome guy,” she muttered sarcastically.

  “He penetrated to the mystical heart of the noumena.”

  “And he was great in the sack?”

  Merlin grinned. “Matter of fact, he was reputed to be.”

  “Merlin, you have to face something. Whatever you’ve been doing, it may have led to what happened back there. And maybe what happened to Anton and Sergei.”

  “Can’t be.”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” Merlin insisted. “Take that dragon. Dragons are good luck signs in Chinese lore. That was a white dragon, the luckiest because they can’t be seen to be hunted. At least in winter.”

  Sara nodded. “They don’t kill people?”

  “Not saying that. But dragons aren’t evil in Chinese culture. Not like in the West.”

  “Okay.”

  Merlin gave an expansive shrug.

  “Whatever that’s worth.”

  She let him off on Seventh Avenue, around Seventh Avenue and West 34th Street.

  “I guess you’re not arresting me,” Merlin said, holding the door open.

  “I guess not. Nothing to arrest you for. Nothing anyone would believe. As for the computer mischief, I’ll leave you to the feds.”

  “Right. Well, take it easy.”

  “You, too. Don’t let any non-optimal feng shui spoil your day.”

  “Yeah, don’t take any wooden werewolves.”

  She thought about nothing much on her way to the station. After handing in the car at the motor pool, she walked to the squad room wanting nothing more than a cup of coffee. She had an hour to kill before starting her watch, and she wanted simply to relax.

  “Pezzini.”

  She turned. “Hi, Jake.”

  Jake looked grim. “Sara, uh, this is hard.”

  “What is it?” She studied his face. “Something wrong?”

  “Uh . . .”

  She poured a cup of coffee and looked around for artificial sweetener. None here. All out. She made a mental note to order some. She turned and took notice that Jake wouldn’t get out of her way. “Jake, what the hell is it?”

  “Sara, the District Attorney wants to see you.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Racketeering?” Sara practically shouted. “Are you insane?”

  The newly-appointed interim District Attorney looked embarrassed. After all, he hadn’t cooked this up. His deputies had.

  One of them, Morrison, sat to the right of his boss’s big desk. He was thin-faced and balding. “That’s right. We may be able to proceed against you under the Racketeering Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. RICO. And we have at least five possible counts, possibly six, though the death of Charles Bromley is still officially an accident. We believe . . . that is, we have reason to believe that you are a hired assassin for the mob. A hit man. Uh, woman.”

  “Any particular mob?” Sara said. She was calm now, and resolved not to raise her voice again. The craziness of the charge had blindsided her.

  “You are a known associate,” Morrison went on, “of Lazlo Kontra . . . uh, the late Lazlo Kontra . . . who headed up a crime family out of south Brooklyn. You have been possibly linked to several murders that could have been mob executions. You were seen at one of Kontra’s hideouts up in Connecticut. The State of Connecticut authorities want to talk to you about two deaths. We suspect your activities are interstate and possibly international.”

  “Crazier and crazier,” Sara said.

  “Detective Pezzini,” said the District Attorney in a tone kindlier than his subordinate’s, “don’t you really think you should have counsel present?”

  “I haven’t heard anything yet to justify my retaining an attorney. I haven’t heard you say you have any proof that I’m a hired assassin.”

  “The RICO law allows the prosecutor a lot of latitude,” Morrison informed her. “It doesn’t involve the usual ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ criterion. It’s more like a civil case. Preponderance of evidence.”

  “Even if the evidence is as flimsy as what you have?” Sara asked pointedly. “Besides, RICO is a federal charge.”

  “We could easily refer the case to federal authorities.”

  “Why don’t you?” Sara said.

  Morrison started to say, “We will—”

  The District Attorney cut him off. “It’s a local matter for now. In fact, it’s still really only an internal matter of the police department. Actually, we are really acting on information mainly supplied to us by Mr. Seltzer here.”

  Seltzer was sitting well back and away. But he was definitely present, as if auditing a course. “Yes, that’s quite true. We’ve been watching Ms. Pezzini for a while. We’ve tracked her movements. For instance, she was observed heading for the Connecticut state line.”

  “But your operatives broke off surveillance,” Sara said.

  Seltzer’s perpetual grin faded. “Internal Affairs has no authorization to cross state lines. We don’t have jurisdiction. But that didn’t stop you.” This last caused his lips to turn up at the corners again.

  “Who says I crossed the line?”

  “It’s reasonable to assume . . .”

  “Can you say honestly that they observed me crossing into Connecticut? That going to be your operatives’ testimony?”

  Seltzer didn’t answer.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “You were seen in Connecticut,” Seltzer said.

  “By whom?”

  “By a known associate, albeit a so-called non-combatant, of a known crime syndicate boss. On the property of said boss.”

  “You going to rely on this witness’s testimony?” Sara asked the DA.

  “Uh . . . well, could be.”

  “A witness who’s spent his lifetime lying for this crime boss?”

  “Two men ended up dead,” Morrison said, “under very mysterious circumstances.”

  “Very interesting,” Sara said. “But you have no reliable evidence. At least I’ve heard none so far.”

  “Your footprints were found in the snow by the state police.”

  “Snow?” Sara looked over at Seltzer innocently. “I didn’t know it had snowed. Where?”

  “Up in Connecticut.”

  “And you have these footprints?”

  “Uh . . . the snow melted.”

  “Ohhhh,” Sara said, as if a great epiphany had dawned.

  Seltzer bristled. “Your footprints were found all over that apartment over the bar! In blood!”

  “I was investigating a crime scene. I discovered the crime scene. Ask the bartender.”

  “Your supposed bartender never saw you, never heard of you. Can’t identify you. And that other bartender you reported doesn’t exist. No one’s ever seen him.”

  “I don’t make up bartenders, Mr. Seltzer.”

  “There must have two dozen people in that bar. We couldn’t find one who’d corroborate your story.”

  “It’s a mob night spot, owned and operated,” Sara said.

  Seltzer made a face. “The barbarity of that crime. The utter brutality! Those men were literally torn apart limb from limb.”

  “And I did it?”

  “We haven’t really said . . .” the DA tried to interpose.

  “We don’t know all the details,” Morrison said.

  “Any theories as to how I did it? Two big strapping guys?”

  “There have been similar incidents in your past,” Seltzer said. “Deaths of crime figures. I have your complete file. It makes for exciting reading. Sort of like a pulp novel.”

  “Who do you think I am? The Shadow? The Scarlet Pimpernel?”

  “I think you’re a mercenary,” Seltzer said, “hiring yourself out to the highest bidder. I think you may be one of the best contract killers in the business.”

 
; Sara groaned and rolled her eyes. “I whacked Ashkenazie for Kontra. Then I whacked Kontra’s gunsels. Then I whack Kontra along with another gunsel. Makes sense.”

  “As the Deputy District Attorney said, we don’t know all the details, yet. But we will.”

  “I think she’s a rogue cop,” Morrison said. “A vigilante cop. Pulp novel? Oh, it’s an old story. Organized crime figures are notoriously hard to nail. The temptation to do it extra-legally is just too much for some cops. Especially for a woman whose father was gunned down in a mob hit.”

  “I wonder what the judge will feel about introducing that kind of prejudicial evidence,” Sara said. “They don’t even let you bring up prior convictions, let alone prior victimizations.”

  Maybe it was the use of a variant of the word ‘victim’ that made Morrison look suddenly uneasy.

  “Is he your best trial man?” Sara asked the DA in a chummy tone.

  “Actually, Phil only does—”

  “That’s beside the point,” Morrison quickly said. “We have more than enough for a prima facie case for . . .”

  Here the DA’s gimlet stare cut the ground out from under him.

  “ . . . further investigation,” Morrison finished.

  Seltzer sat back and crossed his legs, looking disgusted.

  “Now, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” the DA said magnanimously. “This is only a discussion, and we have to investigate this matter a little further. Detective Pezzini, we only wanted to let you know that some ques­tions have been raised and they’re serious questions, questions about professional conduct, and . . . and, uh . . . departmental procedure . . .”

  The door opened and Joe Siry walked in.

  “Albert!” he said with a huge grin. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Joe!” The DA rose from his chair and came around the desk. He almost knocked Morrison over. “Joe, damn it, it’s good to see you! How long has it been?”

  “Too long. How’s Edna? Is Tiffany in college yet?”

  “Graduate school,” Albert said, beaming.

  “No! I’ll be damned. Has it been that many years?”

  “More years than I’ll admit to.”

  “Listen,” said Siry, “congratulations on the appoint­ment. It must be hell stepping into someone’s shoes. I mean, your predecessor suddenly taking ill like that.”