‘She doesn’t know you’re a devil worshiper, you mean?’
‘She knows I’m a wealthy guy who likes to know what’s going on in the city,’ said Wainwright. ‘But she’s a former cop so she’ll be able to hook you up.’
‘And what do I tell her my role is?’
‘You can tell her you’re a researcher working on a documentary about murders. I own a studio out in LA, I can get you fixed up with credentials.’
‘I’m working on a movie? That’s my story?’
‘Not a movie. A documentary. Or a book. I own a publishing company too. Whatever you feel most comfortable with. She’s not going to overthink it. I pay her a good retainer.’
‘What’s her name?’
Wainwright fished a card from his jacket and handed it to him. ‘Her name’s Cheryl Perez. She worked homicide for almost ten years before going private. Don’t ask her why.’
‘Because?’
‘Because it was a bit messy and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of her.’
Nightingale studied the card. Cheryl Perez, Private Investigator. An office address on Broadway, a cell phone number and an email address. Wainwright was sipping his whisky again. ‘What do you think’s happening, Joshua? Why would someone carve sigils into corpses.’
‘I’m not sure they were,’ said Wainwright.
Nightingale frowned. ‘Now you’re confusing me.’
‘Corpses,’ said Wainwright. ‘Certainly the case in Manhattan, the cuts were made while the girl was still alive. Then she was killed. Then more cuts were made to cover up the sigil.’
‘So the sigil is important, obviously. But sigils are the way of contacting devils, aren’t they? They’re the direct line.’
‘That’s right,’ said Wainwright. ‘For most devils, their sigil is the only way to summon them.’
‘So the deaths are part of the summoning? A sacrifice?’
‘Perhaps. But it’s way above my pay grade. I’ve never heard of it being done. Human sacrifice is rare, Jack. As rare as hen’s teeth.’
Nightingale looked out of the window. The sky was threatening rain. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I’ve fixed you up with a place to stay.’
‘Nothing high. You know how I hate elevators.’
‘Sixth floor. But there are stairs.’
Nightingale settled back in his seat. He could manage six floors.
CHAPTER 4
The Humvee dropped Nightingale outside a tall steel and glass building two blocks from Central Park. Wainwright gave him a key card. ‘There’s security downstairs, 24-7. Your name is on the list so you’re good to go. The card will get you in.’
‘It’s an office block, Joshua. I thought you were taking me to a hotel.’
‘You’ve got the whole floor. There’s an executive bathroom with a shower and a couple of sofas, and a kitchen area. You’ll be fine. You’re always talking about maintaining a low profile, and this is low profile.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘I’m flying out tonight but you can always reach me by phone.’
Nightingale climbed out of the Humvee and ground what was left of his cigarette into the pavement as it drove away. He went inside. There was a security guard in a dark blue uniform and peaked cap. He tilted his head on one side and narrowed his eyes but before he could say anything Nightingale flashed the key card. ‘Jack Nightingale, I’m on the sixth floor.’
The guard looked at a clipboard and nodded. ‘The card will operate the elevator, just tap it on the keypad to open the door and again on the keypad inside to get to your floor.’
‘Where are the stairs?’ asked Nightingale.
The security guard gestured over to the elevator lobby. ‘Elevators are over there.’
‘Yeah, I can see. I prefer the stairs.’
‘Why?’
‘Claustrophobic.’
‘The emergency stairs are there,’ said the security guard, pointing at a door at the end of the lobby. ‘Watch out for rats, we’ve had the pest control people in but they’re still around.’
Nightingale thanked him and walked up the stairs. There were trays of rat poison dotted around along with warning notices not to touch them. He reached the sixth floor and pushed open a door that opened onto the elevator lobby. There was a glass door leading to the office and he slid the keycard through the reader and pushed it open.
In the reception area was a white counter with holes cut in the top for computer wiring and a grey wall behind it on which were stainless steel letters spelling out CFG WORLDWIDE. There were hallways to either side of the counter which led to an open plan office that took up most of the floor. The carpeting was grey and was smooth and unmarked as if it had just been laid. Every few yards there were stainless steel flaps covering the power and communications sockets but there was nothing in the way of furniture. To his left was a line of glass-sided offices and to his right a kitchen area with a microwave, a large fridge and a sink. Next to it were three toilets – male, female and handicapped. Nightingale went into all three but didn’t see a shower. He went over to the offices. Two were meeting rooms. One was empty but the other had a large oval table with a dozen steel and leather chairs around it and a whiteboard on one wall. Next to it was an office with two desks and a row of filing cabinets, beyond it was another office with one large desk and there was a linking door to the final office. That obviously belonged to the boss, it was in the corner and there were two leather sofas angled around a coffee table, a massive modern desk with a high-backed chair. There was a door that led to a wood-panelled bathroom with a small shower. ‘Home sweet home,’ muttered Nightingale.
The floor-to-ceiling windows were all covered with white horizontal blinds but they had been angled so that the light streamed in. Nightingale walked around and closed them all before going back to the executive office and doing the same there. He sat down in the high-backed chair and swung his feet up onto the desk, then pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his raincoat. Cheryl Perez answered on the third ring.
‘Mr Wainwright said you’d call,’ she said. ‘I’m around whenever. He said you’re my main priority so long as you’re in town.’
Nightingale looked at his watch. It was just before five. ‘Drink?’
‘Thought you’d never ask. Where are you?’
‘96th Street.’
‘West or East?’
‘I didn’t realise there was a difference.’
‘Which side of the park are you?’
‘It’s to my left. I think.’
She laughed. ‘First time in New York?’
‘Yeah. Is it that obvious?’
‘There’s an Irish bar on 87th and Columbus,’ she said. ‘O’Malley’s. That’s 87th West. I’ll see you there at six.’
‘AM or PM?’ said Nightingale.
‘This is English humour, I suppose?’
‘What passes for it.’
‘Very impressive,’ said Perez. ‘Oh, wear a red rose so I’ll recognise you.’
‘Are you serious?’ The line went dead. Nightingale stared at the phone wondering if she meant it or not.
He went downstairs and found a CVS pharmacy where he bought toiletries, a shaving kit and towels. He went back to the office and showered and shaved and at just before six he was sitting at the bar in O’Malley’s nursing a pint of Guinness.
‘You passed on the rose?’ asked Perez as she appeared at his side. She was quite short, five feet four at the most, with shoulder-length black wavy hair and skin the colour of the peanuts in the bowl by his Guinness. She had high cheekbones and full lips and perfect teeth and Nightingale realised he was staring so he slid off his stool and held out his hand.
‘I thought it was American humour,’ he said.
‘It’s okay, the raincoat was the giveaway. It’s very English.’ She shook his hand. She was wearing a black overcoat with the collar turned up and as she took back her hand and undid the buttons he caught a glimpse of a w
hite shirt and a small gold crucifix. She looked around the bar. There were half a dozen circular tables at the far end of the room, mainly unoccupied, and beyond it a pool table. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Aeroplane food at thirty-five thousand feet,’ he said.
‘Fish or chicken?’
‘Could have been either. No way of telling.’
‘They do a great Irish stew here.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ Perez ordered a glass of red wine and two Irish stews they went over to sit at a table by the wall. There were framed photographs of Irish movie stars, artists and writers dotted between Irish pub memorabilia It looked as if it had been put together by a Hollywood set designer. ‘You’re a fan of Ireland, then?’
‘Something wrong with that? Should I have asked to meet in a tapas bar?’
‘What? No. I just meant…’
She laughed. ‘I’m just busting your balls, Jack.’ She raised her glass. ‘Sláinte.’
He clinked his glass against hers. ‘Sláinte.’
She leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘So Mr Wainwright says you want some info on a case. That murdered girl.’
‘Yeah. Kate Walker. And a look at the crime scene if that’s possible. Or at least copies of the crime scene photos. Can you do that?’
‘I can try,’ she said. ‘I asked around and I know a cop who knows a cop.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Mr Wainwright didn’t say why you were interested.’
She looked at him steadily. She had a cop’s eyes, Nightingale realised. And she was weighing him up. He took a deep breath and sighed. ‘How much do you know about him?’
‘He’s as rich as God. Runs a slew of companies but keeps a low profile. You Google him and nothing comes up.’
‘And what do you do for him?’
‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed you changing the subject,’ she said. ‘Like most wealthy men, he has enemies. He needs to know what’s going on around him. I’m sure he has dozens like me on the payroll. He pays us a retainer and from time to time he asks us to do things for him. I’ve a number of clients like that.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘You don’t get away that easily. Why the interest?’
‘I’m supposed to give you some bullshit story about me researching a book or a movie, but I can see you’re nobody’s fool so I won’t insult you by lying to you. I’m a private eye, same as you. I was a cop before that. And a police negotiator. I’m on Joshua’s payroll too.’
‘You see right there there’s a difference. You call him Joshua. I call him Mr Wainwright. So I’m not convinced we are the same, you and I.’
‘I’ve known him for a while,’ said Nightingale. ‘He uses me to check up on things that spark his interest.’
‘And he’s interested in a dead girl?’
‘Your case and another that’s similar. In Philadelphia. A young guy was cut to pieces there.’
‘And he thinks there’s a connection?’
‘He’s not sure. Which is why he wants me to take a look.’
‘And why’s he interested?’
Nightingale ran a hand through his hair. ‘I hate being questioned by cops,’ he said.
‘And there you go changing the subject again.’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Okay, how about this? He just is. I can’t tell you why. He’s paying me to look at the cases and report back to him. He wants to know what happened. You get paid and I get paid. Nobody gets hurt.’
She sipped her wine and smiled. ‘Maybe you should have just lied, because now I’m more confused than ever. But like you said, I get paid and we’re not doing anything illegal.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘Are we?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
A waiter came over and placed two plates of Irish stew on the table. Nightingale picked up his knife and fork.
‘Do you mind if I say grace?’ she asked Nightingale.
Nightingale started to smile, thinking that she was joking, but then realised she was serious. He put down his knife and fork. ‘Sure.’
She nodded her thanks and then lowered her head. ‘Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.’ She crossed herself.
‘Amen,’ said Nightingale, and did the same.
CHAPTER 5
Sara could see that he was afraid so she smiled what she hoped was a comforting smile. ‘It’s a game,’ she said. ‘It’s just a game.’
‘If you want to play a game, let’s play Grand Theft Auto,’ said her brother. Luke was ten, six years younger than she was. They rarely played together but she needed another pair of hands for the Ouija board and Luke could be relied on to do as he was told.
‘Because I want to play this,’ she said.
‘It’s stupid,’ he said. ‘I’ve never heard of a game like this before.’ He sat back on his heels. They were in her bedroom. He was rarely allowed into her room and had looked at her suspiciously when she had first suggested they play a game together.
‘You liked Charlie Charlie didn’t you? Well this is the same. You can ask it a question and it’ll answer.’
‘Charlie Charlie is for fun,’ said the boy.
‘So is this. But with Charlie Charlie you can only pick one of four answers, right? This way the spirits can talk to us.’
‘Spirits? You mean ghosts?’
‘It’s all the same. Look, it’s a game. Just a game. Do you want to play or shall I tell mom you haven’t done your homework?’
Okay, okay,’ mumbled Luke. ‘Don’t give me a hard time.’
‘Put your fingers on the planchette. Just the tips.’
He frowned. ‘Planchette?’
She nodded at the heart shaped piece of wood on the board. It was dark brown, oak maybe, that had once been varnished but most of the varnish had been worn off over the years. ‘It means little plank. It’s French. You put your fingers on it and it spells out words.’
‘How?’
‘Does it matter? Just do it.’
Luke put out his hands and touched the planchette, then jerked his fingers back as if he had been stung.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It won’t bite.’
He reached out again and this time his fingers stayed on the piece of wood.
‘Good boy,’ she said. She reached across the board and her fingers joined his.
‘Now what?’ he said.
‘Just keep quiet. Let me do the talking. But no matter what happens, keep your fingers on the planchette.’
He nodded and stared down at the board. The letters of the alphabet ran across the board in two rows, A to M on the top and N to Z below it. Below the letters were the numbers from 0 to 9 and below that was GOOD BYE in capital letters. In the top left hand corner was the word YES and NO was in the top right corner.
‘Nothing’s happening,’ he said.
‘Hush. Let me do the talking.’ She looked up at the ceiling. ‘Are you there?’ she said.
‘Who?’ asked Luke. ‘Who are you talking to?’
‘Hush,’ she said, her eyes fixed to the ceiling. ‘Keep quiet.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Are you there?’ Almost immediately she felt the planchette twitch under her fingers. ‘It’s Sara. I’m here,’ she said, louder this time. The planchette twitched again.
‘Are you doing that?’ asked the boy.
‘Hush,’ said Sara. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. ‘Daniel, are you here?’
The planchette twitched and then scraped across the board.
‘You’re talking to Daniel?’ asked Luke. ‘That’s what this is about?’ The planchette stopped moving.
‘Luke, shut up, okay?’
‘Daniel’s dead, Sara. We went to his funeral.’
‘Luke, seriously, shut the fuck up,’ she snapped. She looked up at the ceiling again. ‘Daniel, are you here?’
The planchette began to move a
gain, scraping slowly across the board until the tip touched the E in YES.
‘Really? It’s you?’
The planchette jerked away from the YES and then slowly crept back until it was nudging the E again.
Sara beamed. ‘I knew it would work, I knew it.’
‘You’re pushing it,’ said Luke. ‘I can feel you pushing it.’
‘Shut up!’ snapped Sara. ‘I’m not.’
The planchette began to move again. First it went back to the bottom of the board, then it shook from side to side, then it moved up and to the left. It stopped just under the letter B. Then it went back down, hesitated for a few seconds and scraped up to point at L. It began to move faster as if it was gaining confidence.
I-N-D-F-O-L-D T-H-E B-O-Y.
Luke’s eyes widened.
‘What does it mean? Why does it want to blindfold me?’
Sara stood up. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It just means it has a message it only wants me to see.’ She went over to her wardrobe and pulled out a silk scarf. It had been a birthday present from one of her aunts. It was expensive – Chanel - and it was pure silk but she had never worn it. Sara stood behind Luke and tied the scarf around his eyes.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said, his voice quivering.
‘Don’t be a cry baby,’ she said. She sat down and put her fingertips back on the planchette. She tilted her head back and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I’m ready, Daniel,’ she whispered. The planchette began to slowly scrape itself across the board as if it had a life of its own.
CHAPTER 6
Perez arranged a meeting with the detective for a briefing on the Kate Walker case. His name was Andy Horowitz and he was a big guy who looked like he could handle himself and almost certainly had a military background. He had a crew cut and broad shoulders that strained at the shoulders of his overcoat. His eyes were a pale blue and he didn’t seem to blink much. There was a small scar on his left cheek and when he offered his hand to shake, Nightingale could see the flesh was puckered around the thumb. An old burn scar. ‘You were a cop, in London?’ Horowitz asked. They were standing inside a diner close to the station where the detective was based, waiting to be seated.
New York Night Page 2
