If you say so, McBain thought. She was already starting to use up all the knowledge she could bring to bear in a Yankees-related conversation. If she had to drag the endless Yankees–Red Sox rivalry into it, she’d flounder, and that was contrary to her purpose.
Luckily, O’Shaughnessy let her off the hook. Now sitting up straighter in his chair, he asked, “What can I do ya for, Detective?”
“My name’s McBain, I’m with MPU. You guys get any calls the last couple of days for a 10–31 at 2739 West 195th Street?” she asked, using the radio code for a burglary in progress.
O’Shaughnessy’s pudgy face fell into a frown. “Don’t think so. What’s that gotta do with Missing Persons?”
Putting on an exasperated look, she said, “Don’t ask. My sergeant’s taken up lodging right in my ass until I get through this.”
“Heard that.” O’Shaughnessy sputtered a noise that McBain supposed could have been a laugh. He grabbed the keyboard with a meaty hand and dragged it toward him. “Lemme check.”
Several keystrokes and a few mouse clicks later, O’Shaughnessy shook his head, causing his jowls to vibrate. “Nah, nothin’ there since that homicide back on the seventh.”
“Okay,” McBain said. It had been a long shot, but she was just sure that—
The dispatcher’s voice said, “Nine-one-one call, 10–31 at—” Here, the dispatcher enunciated each number. “—two-seven-three-nine West one-nine-five.”
McBain had to fight to keep herself from grinning. Knew I could count on the boys.
O’Shaughnessy stared at McBain with an expression that she supposed was awe. “How the hell’d you know about that?”
“It was a guess,” was all McBain would say. “Listen, let me take care of that.”
“No biggie,” O’Shaughnessy said, “I can get one of my guys down there and—”
Wincing, McBain said, “Sergeant, please—I really need to take care of this one myself. It’s the only way I’ll get outta the boss’s doghouse, y’know?”
The sergeant stared at her for a second with his beady eyes. “This got somethin’ to do with that homicide?”
“Sort of.” That, at least, wasn’t really a lie. “Like I said, it’s a long story. If you want the whole thing, fine, but there is a 10–31, and—”
Waving her off with both hands, O’Shaughnessy said, “Fine, fine, what-the-hell-ever. Knock yourself out. Just leaves my guys free to bust more stupid college kids.”
McBain chuckled. Both Manhattan College and Mount Saint Vincent were within the Five-oh’s jurisdiction, and Friday nights usually meant lots of so-called SWIs—Stupid While Intoxicated.
Then O’Shaughnessy got a weird look on his face. “Hang on—you sure you don’t need backup?”
Trying not to grit her teeth, McBain said, “If this is who I think it is, trust me, I can handle it.”
“Yeah, but what if you can’t? My lieutenant finds out I let you out without backup, he’ll have my ass.”
“I can understand that,” McBain said. She had been hoping O’Shaughnessy would be too bored to think through the implications.
O’Shaughnessy’s eyes darted back and forth as he thought for a minute. Finally, he said, “Tell you what—I’ll send one of my guys over in twenty minutes if I ain’t heard from you.”
That was a compromise McBain could live with. She was now grateful she’d had the foresight to program the Five-oh’s number into her cell. “That’s fair. Thanks a lot, Sergeant, I really appreciate it.”
“No problemo, Detective,” O’Shaughnessy said, picking up his paper. “An’ hey, listen, I got me season tickets for the Stadium every year. I ever got a free seat, want me to let you know?”
“Sure,” McBain said, confident that she would always be busy at those times, but preferring to keep the goodwill with the sergeant, just in case.
With that empty promise made, she turned and headed back to her Saturn.
It didn’t take long to drive to the corner of Webb and 195th Street, and it took even less time to find an illegally parked 1967 Chevy Impala. I swear, I’m gonna kill ’em.
Double-parking her Saturn right next to the Impala, she checked to make sure her NYPD credentials were prominently displayed on the dashboard, in case one of O’Shaughnessy’s “guys” decided to get overzealous with the parking citations.
The house in question was easy enough to pick out, as it was the only structure on the corner that wasn’t red brick. Yellow crime scene tape was draped sloppily across the wire gate that led to the front door, probably a victim of eleven days of November wind. McBain was surprised the tape was still up, but then recalled that nobody actually lived in the house to take it down. Presumably, the real estate company representing the house—whose name, phone number, and website were listed on the For Sale sign—had declined to show the house for a while after it was a crime scene.
Walking back toward where her car and the Impala were parked, she saw a gated driveway. Normally padlocked, the lock was hanging open, though the gate was still shut. Peering past the gate down the driveway, she saw a side door, and two figures kneeling down in front of it. One was fairly tall and was staring intently down at the other one, who was crouched in front of the door. The tall one seemed to be speaking sharply at the short one, though not loud enough to be heard from the street.
McBain removed her nine-millimeter weapon from its holster and thumbed the safety. She also removed her flashlight, flicked it on and held both it and the nine-mil up as she kicked open the gate. “Freeze, police!”
Both of them looked up at her, like deer frozen in headlights as her flashlight shone on them.
Slowly, she walked into the driveway. The shorter one—that had to be Dean—started to rise up, and she said, “Which part of ‘freeze’ didn’t you get?”
Dean stopped moving.
She finally came fairly close to the pair, though not near enough for them to be in arm’s reach of her weapon.
Once she was sure she’d put on enough of a show for whoever it was who made the 911 call, she lowered her nine-mil. “You guys are complete idiots, you know that?”
Sam started to speak. “Officer, I can explain—”
“It’s ‘Detective,’ and don’t even try to explain it, Sam, ’cause I got no tolerance for Winchester-brand bull.”
Both of them started opening and closing their mouths, as if unsure how to respond to her use of their name.
Deciding to put them out of their misery, she smiled and said, “Yeah, I know who you are. Sam and Dean Winchester, only sons of John Winchester, a man who, unlike his dumbass sons, knows to call me whenever he’s in town.”
“You knew our father?” Dean asked, sounding stunned.
“Yeah.” She frowned, not liking Dean’s use of the past tense. “The rumors I heard ain’t true, though, are they? That he died?”
Both brothers looked at each other, and the expressions on their faces told McBain everything she needed to know. Far too many missing persons cases ended with a corpse, and she knew what grief-stricken people looked like.
“Damn. I’m sorry, guys, I didn’t know. Look, my name’s Marina McBain, and you are damn lucky I found you before the uniforms in the Five-oh did. You know there was a 911 call on your sorry-ass attempt at a B and E here?”
“How did you—” Sam started.
“Later. You wanna check out this place?”
They exchanged another glance, this time looking confused. “I, uh—yeah,” Dean said slowly.
“Fine, get your ass back down on the ground and finish pickin’ the lock. I gotta make a phone call. Here, this might help.” She handed Sam the flashlight, which he held up so it shone on the lock.
“Thanks,” Sam said.
“No problem.”
“You really a cop?” Dean asked.
“Nah, I just like wearin’ gold shields for kicks. Yeah, I’m a cop, now shut up and pick the damn lock.” She started up the driveway toward the street.
“Or what,” Dean said with a smirk, “you’ll show me that NYPD stands for ‘knock your punkass down’?”
She turned back around. “Okay, first of all, white people should not quote Will Smith. Second of all, if you want me to put you on your ass, just say the word, brushy-top.”
Leaving Dean to self-consciously touch the top of his head, McBain pulled her cell phone out from the inside pocket of her suit jacket, flipped it open, and continued up the driveway, calling up the number for the Fiftieth Precinct.
“Fiftieth Precinct, O’Shaughnessy.”
“Sergeant, this is Detective McBain.”
“You okay, Detective?”
He sounded genuinely concerned, which touched McBain. “It was the guys I thought it was. I took care of it, so you don’t gotta send your guys over. Thanks, though.”
“No problem, Detective. Hope this gets you back in good with your boss.”
“Me, too,” she said emphatically. Of course, she was actually off duty right now, and as far as her boss Sergeant Glover was concerned, she was a perfectly good missing persons detective who was currently at home asleep like any sensible day-shift detective would be at that hour. “Thanks again.”
She turned and walked back down the driveway. “Okay, I got the Five-oh off the scent. If the 911 caller wants to know what happened, they’ll say it was taken care of, but I doubt they will. Damn citizens don’t follow up on anything.”
Just as she got to the side door, Dean stood up and pulled it open. “Yahtzee.”
Handing McBain the flashlight back handle first, Sam said, “Thanks.”
“No problem. I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume you guys’re checkin’ out the basement?”
“Good guess.” Dean then looked at her with an annoyed expression. “I suppose you wanna come in with us, huh?”
“You wanna try and stop me, knock yourself out.”
“Lady, I don’t even know who you are.”
McBain smiled sweetly. “Lemme give you a clue, brushy-top. I’m the only person standin’ between you and a couple uniforms from the Five-oh bustin’ your asses, runnin’ your face and prints through the system, turnin’ up a federal warrant for your arrest, and lockin’ you both up for the rest of your natural lives. You feel me, Dean, or you want me to call Sergeant O’Shaughnessy back and tell him I need backup?”
The two brothers looked at each other again, and seemed to come to a decision. McBain could swear they communicated telepathically.
Dean bowed slightly and indicated the door. “After you.”
“Suddenly, you found chivalry?” McBain asked with a snort.
“Nah, it’s just—you got the flashlight.”
That elicited another snort. McBain went in the door.
The entrance led right into a staircase. To the left, it went up to an open doorway. McBain shone the light up to see an empty room—expected in an empty house for sale. There was also a whiff of spice in the air. The last owner had been a cook for a fancy restaurant in Midtown, and obviously her skills were plied at home as well.
To the right, the stairs went down into the basement, which was the actual scene of the crime.
She quickly got to the bottom of the stairs, which creaked with each step all three of them took, so much so that she was grateful that it was late and there was a driveway and a wall between this house and the place next door. The flashlight illuminated bits of the room: a washer and dryer, wooden support beams, a hardwood floor that had been put in within the last ten years or so, and incredibly hideous wallpaper on three of the walls.
McBain also found a light switch, and flicked it on. A forty-watt lightbulb dangling from a chain in the center of the ceiling lit up, making her think she was better off with just the flashlight.
The wall that wasn’t covered with the wallpaper was made of brick, and it was even newer than the hardwood—less than a month, in fact. Based on the reports she’d read, that had made it fairly easy to break the wall down after both the neighbors and the real estate agency complained about the smell in the basement. Sure enough, there was a large hole in the brick, more yellow crime-scene tape draped across the gap.
Sam stood behind her, peering over her head into the hole. “You can’t even tell there was a body in there.”
“Reyes, the vic, he died of suffocation. And one way you could’ve told there was a body in here was that the inside of some of the otherwise-brand-spanking new bricks had scratch marks on ’em. But they’re all at the lab.”
“Sammy, look at this.”
McBain turned to see Dean kneeling down on the floor. Sam moved to kneel next to him. Deciding to respect the boys’ need to do their own thing, McBain hung back.
Sam looked up at her. “Did the crime-scene report indicate any herbs found lying around?”
“Not that I can remember—but the woman who used to own this place was a gourmet cook.”
Dean held up a small piece of greenery between thumb and forefinger. “I hope she didn’t cook with this. This is wormwood.”
McBain shrugged. “Well, you can cook with wormwood—and make tea with it, for that matter—so I don’t see—”
“It’s also used in resurrection rituals,” Sam said, “including the one this is part of.”
“This is a resurrection ritual?” McBain shuddered. “Hell. I ain’t exactly up on those.”
Dean stood up. “What are you up on, Detective? Are you a hunter, a cop, a pain in the ass, what?”
Grinning, McBain said, “What, I can’t be all three? I don’t hunt that much, actually. Killed a vampire that was draining homeless folks for fun a few years back—and I gotta tell ya, takes forever to saw through a neck bone with a kitchen knife—but mostly I just keep an eye on things, help out hunters who come through town, and make sure the mundanes don’t get word of it. I’m part of a network of cops, actually.”
“Are you kidding me?” Dean didn’t sound convinced. “A network?”
“Yeah, well, don’t be too impressed, brushy-top. Right now, there’s all of four of us—me, a woman in Chicago named Murphy, and a guy in Eugene, Oregon, named Lao.”
“That’s three,” Sam said.
McBain smiled. “Well, you know the fourth. She’s down in Baltimore. Kinda new, and she may not be a cop much longer.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “You mean Detective Ballard?”
Nodding, McBain said, “She’s suspended right now, pending an IID investigation, and even if she comes out okay, she probably ain’t gonna be able to stay in Homicide. Still, we reached out to her after she met up with you two, and she’s joined up. We had another one, down in Mississippi, but she died in Katrina.”
“You’re right,” Dean said, “I’m not too impressed.”
“Well, just four of us was fine for a while,” McBain said. “Up until about a year and a half ago, things were cool, but—” She shuddered. “The spooky stuff ’s quintupled lately. Gettin’ harder to keep a lid on it.”
Sam and Dean exchanged another one of their telepathic looks, then Sam said, “How come almost all of you are women?”
“Can we play twenty questions later?” Dean asked. He started checking out the rest of the basement.
Sam gave McBain an apologetic smile and started checking the hole in the wall.
For her part, McBain checked the ceiling. She didn’t expect anything, but she also figured it couldn’t hurt.
“To answer your question, Sam,” she said as she got a good look at several cobwebs, “this ain’t exactly normal police work. Your regular police, he ain’t gonna buy this for a dollar. Only ones open to the spooky stuff are people already on the fringe. Usually, that’s us womenfolk.”
“And the one guy you mentioned was Asian,” Sam said.
McBain nodded. “My training officer used to say that an Asian cop is like a Jewish Pope. And while they ain’t that rare, they ain’t common, neither.” She let out a long breath. “So what resurrection ritual is this, anyhow? Like I said, th
at ain’t exactly my area.”
“It’s not,” Dean said. “It’s a fake ritual some jackass in the nineteenth century made up to scam people out of their hard-earned moolah.”
“Obviously,” Sam added, “somebody believes it’s real.”
Not finding anything on the ceiling, McBain looked back at the brothers. “So this ain’t just some fetish thing—someone’s trying to, what? Resurrect Edgar Allan Poe?”
Dean said, “That’s what it looks like.” He turned to Sam. “You owe me ten bucks.”
Sam looked outraged. “What?”
Holding up the wormwood, Dean smiled. “Cops missed the resurrection herb garden. You owe me ten bucks.”
“Call my lawyer,” Sam muttered, then turned to McBain and spoke quickly, probably to keep his brother from making a rejoinder. “Detective McBain, if you don’t mind my asking—how’d you know we’d be here?”
“Didn’t know for sure till I checked out the Five-oh—that’s the Fiftieth Precinct,” she added when she belatedly realized that they might not have been versed in NYPD lingo. “This house is in their territory. Anyhow, the call came in on you guys right when I got there.”
“Yeah, but how’d you know to check in the first place?”
Dean, who was looking at some kind of funky contraption that McBain realized was a goofy-looking homemade EMF meter, said, “I was wonderin’ that myself.”
“Well, I’d been keepin’ an eye on the Poe thing from the git-go—I mean, this whole bricked-up thing screamed both ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ and ritual nonsense to me, so I figured a hunter or three might show up, and I thought it even more after the orangutan. Nobody here’s put it together yet, but the two murders are different precincts, and not everybody’s all that well read. I mean, ‘Amontillado,’ everyone knows that one, but ‘Murders on the Rue Morgue’ ain’t taught in most English classes, and most cops don’t even remember their English classes.” She smiled. “And then the Five-two got a call from Bronx Zoo security about two guys, a tall one and a short one, claiming to be from National Geographic but not really being very convincing.”
The boys exchanged another one of their glances, though this one, she noticed, was a bit more guilty.
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