A news anchor shrugged himself ready. Cameras rolled. Polished speech filled the church.
Father McCarrick folded his arms and turned to his housekeeper. His deliberate murmur seemed unnecessary given the hubbub.
“Lots of activity.”
“Yes, Father.”
“We need to support St. Ambrose’s.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Are you prepared?”
“I am.”
A skinny blonde holding a microphone waved a bony hand at McCarrick. He waved back, and she crooked her finger and beckoned him.
He shot his cuffs and squared his shoulders.
“Then get back to the kitchen and do your magic, Mrs. Blodgett. They look like a hungry bunch.”
Chapter 25
Sheila Thompson nuzzled the side of Conley’s neck, her warm breath caressing him. He raised his chin to savor the smoothness. Her soft hair fell across his face. He closed his eyes in mock rapture. After all, they were…
Pretending.
He slid his hand down her supple back and let it rest on the rise of her hips. She was graceful as a ballerina, swaying as she ground against him. Hard to believe they were…
Acting.
Their disguises—she’d dyed her hair red and he’d grown a goatee—made him feel like they were strangers who’d just met, even on this third night posing as a couple hunting for the Paladin, the sex club that had threatened Victor Rodriguez. Third night—a Monday—trolling the sleaziest Boston couples bars they could find. Other couples danced toward them, spinning and drifting away like saucers in a teacup ride. The mirrored ball in Misty’s Tavern painted them with colored light.
The music stopped. They walked away from the dance floor and sat at a small table to wait for new couples. New propositions. She swirled merlot in her glass and watched the red tears run down the inside.
Thompson had a lot in common with Conley’s wife Lisa. Women of resolve, both of them used to getting their way.
So very determined.
Lisa and Sheila Thompson—the same.
But Lisa was all about career and Thompson would go to the wall for an abandoned little girl she barely knew.
So very different.
When it came to warfare, Lisa was the German army—and Sheila Thompson the Russian winter.
The gauntlet began.
Big Hair made the first run. Her mate trailed behind, a young dude with a jet-black mullet.
“Hey, you guys are new,” she said and thrust her breasts so far forward her halter top became transparent. She placed a hand on the back of Thompson’s chair.
“Only to you.” Thompson smiled, covering the hand with her own.
“Looking to party?” Mullet said in a voice so low Conley felt it in his chest.
“Sure,” Thompson said. “Let’s head for the Paladin.”
“Never heard of it,” the woman murmured and massaged Thompson’s arm and shoulders. “How’s a hot tub sound?”
“You know what?” Thompson said, shrugging the hand away. “We’re not interested after all.”
Cold wind howling across the Siberian tundra, so powerful it drives powdered snow back toward the sky.
Who would have guessed?
The couple stormed away.
The waitress approached for the third time in minutes. Persistent. Young. Plain black skirt. White dress shirt. Look-away eyes. Conley held his hand over his glass. Thompson shook her head. The girl hesitated, turned, and left.
A young blonde approached next, golden-haired like a Nordic princess. The body builder at her side did the talking.
“Hey,” he said.
Eloquent.
Thompson ran her hand along his rippling arm. “Sit down, handsome.”
The blonde was quiet as she took the seat next to Conley and pressed her thigh against his. Muscles sat next to Thompson and she stroked his arm as if he were a pet. He swung his face toward hers.
“We were just getting ready to leave. How about you?”
“Sure. Ever hear of the Paladin?”
“No.”
Thompson pulled her hands away as if they’d been burned, and leaned back in her seat.
“Buzz off,” she said and sipped wine. “Amateur.”
Vast, quiet steppes covered by cracked ice that looked like broken mirrors. Bare, bent trees that nature seemed to have forgotten.
Waitress was back, a nuisance.
Nothing was going right and time was wasting. Maybe the Paladin never existed. Maybe William had it all wrong. Maybe Sage was a liar.
“We wait,” Thompson said, and it was as if she had read his mind. “We wait because that’s what always works, doesn’t it? All things come to she who waits.”
He lifted his beer. “To those who wait,” he corrected.
She smiled. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help but smile back.
The waitress set a cocktail napkin in front of him along with a beer he hadn’t asked for. She set a full glass of wine next to the almost-full one Thompson held. The girl laid a business card in front of him and snapped the corner with her thumbnail before she left. A telephone number was scrawled on the back.
He turned the card over and looked up. The waitress was gone.
“Congratulations,” Thompson said. “Lucky stiff, Conley. You got a date. Maybe you didn’t need me after all.ˮ
He shook his head and showed the card to her. A wide border of scrolls and curlicues—red, purple, orange—surrounded bold letters that spelled a name—THE PALADIN.
Chapter 26
Conley called the number on the card and jotted down the address of the Paladin. Thompson set her Mercedes’ GPS and they headed toward Boston. They crossed the Mystic River Bridge and drove toward the lighted skyline that blazed in a muted winter glow. They negotiated the narrow streets of the North End and financial district until they were at warehouses on the shorefront. Cars lined every available street parking space, and it took them fifteen minutes to find an open spot. Thompson parked and Conley phoned in their position. They walked the dark waterfront in silence, footsteps echoing, until they stopped.
Three curved steps extended from a windowless building like an open hand, a building that matched Sage’s sketch. A dull aluminum rail split the stairway and led to a door covered with riveted metal plates. The front of the place was a sheer wall, a red-brick cliff. No street number on the door. No sign. Just a curved coil of green tubing over the entrance that led to a plain fixture with a stingy bulb.
The alley was quiet, a dead-end valley surrounded by man-made mountains of mortar and clay. Conley stepped on the first stair and the building seemed to hum a slow rush, a dull heartbeat.
“You sure this is the Paladin?” Thompson asked.
“Looks like it.” It has to be. “Ready?” He clasped the frigid rail.
She gave him an arch look and walked past him to the door. Determined. Fearless.
“Wait,” he said, and pulled a wad of paper from his pocket, unfolded it on his open hand, and smoothed it with the other. “Take a last look at Carrie.”
She stood next to him, shoulders touching, and they studied the drawing. Carrie’s chin tilted down and her lifeless hair framed a frightened face. Eyes peered from under furrowed brows. Her name was written at the bottom of the page in flowing letters. Funny how a name under a picture gave it soul.
“We talk to Carrie and no one else,” he said. “Sage says to trust her.”
He stared at the portrait and kept smoothing the page even after it was flat. When he saw Carrie, he’d know, and not just from high cheekbones and a delicate chin. Sage had captured abject hopelessness in the woman’s eyes.
He looked up. The hum grew loud. Music blared.
Thompson had opened the door and was stepping inside with one long-legged stride, one stilettoed step.
He pocketed the drawing, climbed the steps, grasped the round knob, held the door.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter.
**
**
The Paladin door closed with a bang. A huge, warehouse-size room stretched in front of him, a room of towering metal girders and concrete walls. Tiny spotlights glowed in the tall ceiling, lights that appeared as distant as stars and lit the perimeter of the room like a halo.
People danced in the center—shifting shapes that billowed like black clouds in the dusk. Thompson was already far ahead, halfway around the room, making sure she was seen. He let her go. She’d more than proven her ability to take care of herself these past few nights.
The song ended. Dancers left the floor and blocked Conley’s way. He studied them, searching for Carrie. Odd task, trying to compare flesh, blood, and hair with Sage’s pencil sketches. He recognized one couple, but couldn’t remember the names Sage had written under their portraits.
A young brunette next—Mary? Marie?
Marcie, that was it. And Peter, thin face and smiling lips, was right behind.
One by one, Sage’s pencil people came alive and blossomed into three dimensions.
Toni stepped away from the crowd, dancing a slow grind with someone who was not her husband Dan.
Linda drank wine from a fluted glass. When it was finished, she turned and scooped a new one from a tray.
Artie’s eyes darted around the floor, inspecting female bodies as if they were cattle.
Conley walked past, through a mix of perfume, cologne, and booze so pungent it seemed to wet the air, and he saw Carrie. She looked as tired as her picture, eyes narrowed to slits, hair tousled as if she’d just woken. He trapped her in a corner. She tried to pass.
“Carrie,” he said. “Sage sent me.”
Sage’s picture of her was spot on. The upturned face spoke resignation and failure. Pupils were dilated and words slurred.
“Yeah?” she said dreamily, tilting her head. “Sage?”
“She said you’d help me find Victor’s killer.”
“Victor’s dead? Bummer. You a cop?”
“Hell, no.”
“Then why do you care?”
“He owed me money.”
That, she understood.
Thompson had made it to the other side of the dance floor. He signaled her.
“Someone in the Paladin threatened Victor. Do you know who?”
Carrie closed her eyes and knit her brow. “I remember. It wasn’t us. Victor came with a friend—Richard—and they argued. He threatened to kill Victor, not us. They had a big blowout, Liam was pissed.”
Liam. Sage had thought him important enough to bring his picture to Conley’s boat, and her voice had quavered when she spoke his name. He gets what he wants, doesn’t take no for an answer. He’s rough with the girls sometimes—the willing and the unwilling.
Carrie whispered conspiratorially. “Then this Richard dude fucked up. He said his last name, like he thought he was somebody important, or better than us. Said we better remember that name. Drewits. Like screw it, only with an s at the end.ˮ She gave a drug-induced giggle. “Only he was the one screwing up. We don’t use last names in the Paladin. That’s the number one rule.”
Suddenly Conley spotted Liam at the other end of the hall, no mistaking him—strong jaw and feral eyes, just like the sketch. He was stalking Thompson, approaching her like prey. When he caught up to her he slid his thick arm around her shoulder and all but forced her through a red door.
Conley started toward them, but Carrie held his wrist. “Where you going, handsome? We just met.”
“Iʼll be back.ˮ
Conley shouldered his way through the crowd. They’d become an amorphous shape, a single, human obstacle of flesh and bone. He fought past and followed through the red door. Small points of light flickered in a hallway ceiling like fireflies. Doors on both sides stretched ahead endlessly. He opened the first. Empty—except for mattresses on the floor, covered in silk sheets. He stopped and listened. The music from the dance room was muffled, but its percussion beat an eerie warning—like war drums. A woman’s laughter erupted behind one door, long, deep moans rose from another. He threw one open.
Naked bodies writhed like a nest of snakes. Bodies—white, brown, and black—slithered on mattresses as if oiled. Sighs rose from the tangle, throaty laughs, labored breaths. A girl caressed his leg and he pulled away.
Back to the hallway. Too much time had passed. He called Thompson’s name, and a door rattled ahead and an unmistakable voice rang out.
“Matt!”
He yanked the door open and stepped inside. She and Liam stood alone, facing each other like boxers. Her arms sported finger bruises and blood ran from the corner of her red lips. Liam was shirtless, covered in muscle and bulging blue veins—blue rivers—that crisscrossed his torso like chainmail over hard plates of flesh. His hands hung at his sides and his thick fingers looked strong as grappling hooks.
“Letʼs go,ˮ Conley told Thompson.
Liam’s eyes narrowed as his jaw stiffened. “She’s mine. Wait your turn.”
“The lady came with me.ˮ
Liamʼs fist shot forward like a battering ram and smashed Conley in the nose. A split second later heʼd pinned Conley to the wall with a forearm. Eyes as cold as death he leaned forward and spoke again, his inhuman breath warm as steam.”I said fuck off.ˮ
Conley threw a few roundhouse punches into a steel-barreled chest. Thompson jumped the bastard from behind and went for the choke hold but he slipped out of it and threw her off. A kick between his legs brought only a grunt and a hiss. Still, when Conley hooked his ankle around Liamʼs calf and pushed off the wall as hard as he could, all three of them collapsed on the mattress, limbs motoring, breath heaving.
Thompson wriggled free, found the wall switch, and flicked the lights off. Conley rolled away and Liam searched for him in the dark, roaring curses.
“Now!ˮ Conley shouted, slipping out of his jacket when Liam’s strong paws caught a sleeve. Thompson yanked open the door and they darted into the big hall, into the din, louder now, walls beating faster, into the mob of dancers. They fought through arms, legs, and bodies, eager to exit the front door they’d searched so long to find. Outside, Conley saw Thompson had shucked her shoes.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she only shook her head and waved him off, then bolted off the doorstep and into a sprint through the valley of buildings. Conley followed, running as fast as he could, until behind them the insistent, infernal drumbeat became silent.
Chapter 27
The next morning, Stacia Drewicz smiled a wall of yellow teeth at Conley. It hadn’t taken him long to isolate the correct spelling for the name Carrie had given him at the Paladin. Good old Richardʼs file had then provided more than enough reason to warrant a personal visit.
The woman’s mustard-colored eyes darted playfully between him and Kendricks as she spoke, making Conley’s breakfast sandwich roll over in his stomach. Was she actually flirting with them?
“Richard never married,” she tittered. “God knows the girls were always after him, ever since grade school. But he was too busy with hobbies—computers, sailing toy ships in the pond, science fiction books. Never had time to find a girl and get serious.”
Her pudgy hands fluttered as she spoke, holding still only for the words she stretched. Fat fingers flicked the air when she talked about her son’s gadgets. Machines—such a silly fad. Her hands straightened, palms out and waving in a slow circle, polishing the space in front of her when she talked about Richard’s missed romantic opportunities.
Conley slid back on the hard, slippery Victorian couch, and listened with as much patience as he could muster. He opened the folder on his lap—Richard Drewicz’s arrest jacket.
No time for girls, Mrs. D? Richard had time enough for trouble. Hacked into a bank’s computer, drew two years’ probation from a soft judge. Then he beat a child pornography rap when his jpeg files magically self-erased. He had time for all that.
Movement on the right, outside her living room window. Blue uniforms blurred by white lace curtains. The Salem
cops who’d brought the detectives leaned against their cruisers.
Footsteps overhead. Richard? Conley looked at the spot she studied on the ceiling.
“We need to speak with your son,” he said, interrupting.
“He’ll be down soon enough,” she said. “What’s this about?”
“Richard’s name came up during the Victor Rodriguez murder investigation.”
She chuckled, a grin so wide that it shut her jaundiced eyes and made her jowls shake.
“This is no joke, ma’am,” Kendricks said.
A door creaked shut somewhere in the house, barely perceptible.
“I’m sorry, Officer, but the idea Richard knows anything about murder is ludicrous. He’s not a very physical creature, you know—ˮ
A creature.
“Technology and the arts, Detective. Those are Richard’s passions. He and his friends are very artistic—ˮ
Muffled sounds, the sweep of footsteps on carpeted stairs. Conley glanced at the main stairway—empty.
“Gentlemen, Richard can’t help you,” she said, leaning forward, eyes closed, head shaking. Her high, quivering hair formed a sweeping silver swirl like a giant seashell. Her flowered dress stretched over shoulders and bust.
Conley stood and walked to the foyer.
“Officer,” Mrs. Drewicz called from behind, loud and shrill. The springs in her chair complained. She pointed a chubby finger at the floor. “Sit down. Right now. This is my house and I don’t allow strangers to run roughshod through it.”
He pushed the swinging door to the kitchen, just enough to see through.
A man stood on the last step of a narrow back stairway. Skinny. Receding hairline and wide eyes that made his head look like a small animal’s. Baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt draped straight down from bony shoulders and arched back.
He stepped onto the kitchen floor gingerly, as if untrusting of the tiles. He crossed the kitchen and eased open a four-panel door that led to a basement. A light clicked on. An unpainted banister was on the right, and as Richard held it, his legs rose and felt for each step like an insect’s.
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