Then I spotted Cella and she spotted me and we barreled our way through the crowds and towards each other, breathless, taking a moment to get our bearings.
I said, “Tell me you know what the fuck is going on.”
“I heard about the fire on the emergency services radio band. You know, I got one of those scanners—it’s useful for my job. Reports of a fire about an hour ago. Once I heard the address, I was rolling. Got here about 30 minutes after that. Place was already almost gone. Someone did a real professional job.”
“Yeah. I wonder who.”
“I figured you’d get here eventually. Listen, forget all of this shit here. I’ve been doing some research. So get this: all those women who confessed last week—you know, the five strange-os you had in lock-up until they changed their tune—they all are past students of the LaVey Institute. Every one. I checked and double-checked. Genie, this is big.”
“Jesus. Well, it makes sense.”
“Shit yeah, it makes sense,” Cella said. “I checked ’em all out: ran backgrounds, blah blah, the whole nine yards. Spoke to some people who knew them, workmates, buddies, even family members. They’re fucked up, totally fanatical. Involved with some kind of cult or something, but they didn’t have many details. Just, like, total withdrawal from normal life. No contact with their folks anymore. Most haven’t been to work in weeks. I mean, we are dealing with some serious fucking weirdoes here.” “And all willing to go to jail for obstruction of justice. But who would choose to do that? I mean, how do you persuade someone to sacrifice themselves like that?”
“I dunno. But listen, here’s the best part. All of this got me onto a few more leads, and another name came up: Aaliyah Addison.”
I looked at her blankly—the name meant nothing to me. “Sorry,” Cella said. “She’s a cop, does desk-work, admin mainly. At the Detectives Division of the Hera City PD. Genie, she’s your leak.”
“Right. Feeding them information from the inside. She’s another LaVey alumnus?”
“Uh-huh. Actually graduated with Spaulding, the actor.” “Why didn’t this show up anywhere?”
“Why would it? There’s nothing illegal about having gone to this dump. Well, there isn’t yet.”
She gave a smile that was simultaneously vindictive but totally justified. This was it, this was all we needed. More than enough to tie LaVey to Madeleine, the conspiracy…even without the records and other incriminating documents she’d just torched. We had her. We had them all.
I smiled myself and lit a cigarette. “Thanks, Cell. You’ve done it. We’ve got ’em.”
“Fuck, yeah, my little friend. Bang. To. Rights.”
I turned and started walking back towards my car, Cella five yards behind, back to find a phone and call Etienne and tell her I beat the deadline and then call Dispatch and issue APBs on Odette, LaVey, Queneau, the whole rotten bunch of plotters and traitors and murderers and devils. My head was in the clouds, floating high at a dizzy altitude, so I didn’t notice Alejandra Villegas as she stepped in front of me, and almost bumped into her. I stopped. She smiled: blank-eyed, innocent-seeming. Then she held up her hands to show she wasn’t armed.
I muttered, “What the fuck…?” and reached back for my gun. Villegas said quietly and calmly, “Virginia Newman is dead if you do anything or contact anyone.”
My hand stalled. I looked left and right, then back at the girl. “What did you say?”
“Virginia Newman is dead if you do anything or contact anyone. Take your hand from the gun.”
I did. Then I caught onto myself and leaned in close to the girl: “What is this shit? Why am I taking orders from you?”
She said, “I told you: Virginia Newman will be killed if you don’t do exactly as I say. You’re to come with me. Now.”
I could sense rather than see Cella about seven or eight yards away, bent down, pretending to tie her shoe-lace, listening in as best she could over the ambient noise, the ruckus of crowds and sirens, water gushing from fire-hoses.
“Come with you?” I said, louder than normal, as loud as I dared. “Come with you where?”
“We’re wasting time. Start walking in front of me and don’t try to call for help. I’ll be watching.”
“How do I know she’s still alive?” “You don’t. Move.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
“I mean what direction am I walking, genius.” “The direction of your car, Detective. Now move.”
I shrugged and sloped off, making sure to pass by Cella’s line of sight. She was still fumbling with the lace, staring at the ground. I risked a glance towards her. She glanced up and nodded imperceptibly. Then Cella was swallowed up by a group of anxious parents swarming towards where the students were clustered, and I was on my own.
It was almost like someone had stage-managed the entire scene. As though one of our top movie directors was producing her masterpiece, and here was the denouement, and it was going to be spectacular. Night had fallen by the time we reached Hecate Point, way out at the edge of Hera, past the urban and suburban and exurban, a place where countryside and cityscape met, nervously advancing on one another, advancing and withdrawing, pushing and pulling, though the result of this tug- of-war was never in doubt: nothing halts progress, and certainly not the timid, guileless beauty of nature. Someday all of the fields we passed and small lanes we drove down would be covered over with concrete and asphalt. But not this night: this night the world was green as well as gray. And it was blue, too, under the moonlight as I pulled up in front of Hecate Point lighthouse, standing on a single enormous slab of rock that jutted out into the sea: an iron-clad fist, a hard challenge yelled at the ever-changing sea. A cloudy night, the waning moon like half an antacid tablet softly dissolving in water.
The Point was a thin, irregularly shaped and extremely dangerous spit of land, surrounded by razor-teeth rocks and ravaged by treacherous, unpredictable currents. That’s why the city authorities had built the lighthouse about a century before, to warn off approaching ships. About three decades ago the place was closed, supplanted by a complicated system of buoys and automated lights and navigational guides. Romance killed by technology. The lighthouse had stood empty since then, not even a tourist attraction; too far out from the heart of the action. I knew it had been sold by the city, years back, but didn’t know who the buyer was. It didn’t seem important. Nobody ever came here, nobody used this place.
The lighthouse was dark, the outside lights off, no life showing within. My car headlamps lit up the stone steps leading to the tower. I killed the engine and said, “Now what?”
Alejandra Villegas touched my gun to the back of my head and said, “Out.”
She had taken the Beretta as soon as we reached my car back at the LaVey Institute, sat in the back and instructed me to drive. I’d given it to her, breaking one of the cardinal rules of police work: never lose your weapon. But what choice did I have? I knew they had Virginia, I didn’t need proof. We stepped out of the car and were hit by a wall of sound, waves crashing against the point. Goddamn, what an image: the director was pulling out all the stops with this one. Giant horses of sea-spray rearing up from the deep, leaping over the rocks, landing almost at our feet. All I needed now was a stirring orchestral soundtrack in my ears.
Villegas prodded me towards the entrance. The front door was open a few inches. I looked back at her: still that blank expression, like a machine in human form. That stupid, seemingly benign smile. I wanted to punch her, knock her flat on her cute little ass, grab the gun and charge in, all barrels blazing. Obviously I was never going to do that. I noticed a light blink on near the top of the lighthouse, the living quarters, maybe 150 feet off the ground. A soft light, weak, orange, almost welcoming. Villegas nodded at the dark doorway. I did the only thing I could: I gathered my courage and walked into that darkness, fearless and determined, no matter the circumstances.
We walked together, me in front, her fol
lowing four or five steps behind like an automaton, slowly climbing, step by step. Our feet rang out as they hit the metal. The building was colder inside than out, a chill seeped through to the bones of the place, a cold of age and isolation. And then we were at the top of the circular stairs and Villegas was pushing me through into the living quarters. A large, slightly elliptical room with fitted cupboards, curved to meet the shape of the walls, which were the only remaining vestige of its previous life. It had been totally transformed, set up like a real kinky scene, as if the director had now decided to shift focus from serious drama to lurid melodrama: torches burning in wall brackets, two large sofas, cushions and rugs strewn around the floor, candelabras, incense burners, drapes, low tables with glasses of wine and bowls of fruit, bizarre statuettes and other cultural paraphernalia standing guard in a distant circle.
And there to welcome me: Azura LaVey, Mary-Jane Tussing and Odette Crawford. LaVey was sitting on one of the couches, smiling and cradling a glass of sparkling vino; the other two stood behind her and pointed handguns at me, old-style revolvers. Odette looked past my head—I’d like to think she at least felt some embarrassment—but Tussing stared straight at me, almost daring me to do something, to provoke her. All three women were wearing white robes, sort of classical garb, like something you’d see in a bad, historically confused TV show about the Greek pantheon or Ancient Egypt: pinned at the collarbone with gold brooches, their hair swept high and elegant, thin brass bracelets snaking around their wrists and arms. Cleopatra’s den meets the waxwork house of horrors.
“Detective Auf der Maur. Please, come in.”
LaVey swept a hand before her in a way which left me in no doubt: that wasn’t an invitation but a command. I stepped in, stopped, looked around. I could see the balcony outside, metal and chipped white paint, which circled the lighthouse, and the exit door leading to that; the actual control room and now- defunct light were off to the left, through a small closed door.
Villegas dug the gun into my back. I said without turning around, “Do that again and I’ll take it and cram it up your ass, you fucking zombie.”
She didn’t respond. LaVey chuckled and said, “Come now. Let’s not have any…unnecessary unpleasantness, shall we?”
“Yeah. Just the necessary kind, right?”
I took another few steps forward. There was something about this room; I thought I remembered it from somewhere. It reminded me of the place in my dream, the one where Virginia— Cassandra as I knew her then—was naked on a fur rug in a round room…
Lightning crackled outside with a ferocious, scarcely believable volume, lighting up the room in epileptic flashes, making me jump nearly out of my skin. Jesus, an electrical storm? My fictitious director was really going nutso now, throwing everything at the audience. To hell with subtlety, just sit back and enjoy the ride. Rain started falling, a deluge, almost Biblical, as more lightning cracked and thunder bellowed across the sky like a godlike drum-roll.
I said, “Where is Virginia?”
“Strip to your bra and underpants,” LaVey commanded. “Alejandra, take the detective’s clothes.”
I did as I was told. Her slave gathered my clothes, and the Kevlar vest, from the floor and folded them neatly in a pile by the wall. My feet were cold on the floor and I started to shiver a little.
“Come on, LaVey—I did what you said, now where is she?” She nodded at Tussing, who moved to the small side door, yanking it open. Anneka Klosterman took two giant steps into the main room, dragging someone behind her. Klosterman wasn’t wearing a robe, but black combat pants, boots and sweater, like she was just about to climb a mountain using those big fingers as hooks. Virginia stumbled out in her underwear, half-covering her chest and tummy with her arms. She looked bewildered, frightened, disorientated. Then she saw me and skipped over, her feet arched up off the cold floor. Virginia turned to me and whispered, “Now do you believe me?”
I looked at her and smiled. Despite everything, I smiled.
“You approve of what I’ve done with the place?” LaVey had stood and was casting her arm around the room, smug and proud, acting the role of tasteful homeowner. “You know, of course, that the LaVey Institute bought this facility some years ago? Now fully owned by us. Or rather, by me.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “But there’s a lot of things I don’t know, it seems.”
LaVey smirked and fitted a cigarette into her gold-plated holder. Klosterman strode over, leaned in and lit it without being asked. LaVey said, “Things? Really. Such as?”
“Such as why you had Madeleine Greenhill murdered.”
I flashed a look at Odette; she quickly looked away, then took a few steps back towards the exterior balcony.
LaVey sighed, like she was a patient teacher explaining something to a particularly dumb-headed child. Maybe I was one. She said, “The thing is, Detective, I didn’t. Oh, I was going to have the little wretch killed. She was… Well. Let’s just say she was becoming the proverbial thorn in my side. An inconvenience to me.”
“An inconvenience?” I spluttered. “A fucking inconvenience?!” Virginia yelled, “Madeleine was a human being, you motherfucker! She was my friend!”
Good to see the old fire hadn’t died completely. Good to see the return of Cassandra my wonder woman.
LaVey flapped a hand dismissively. “Please, Virginia. No childish melodramatics. It embarrasses us both.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”
“You were lying about not being involved in Madeleine’s death.”
“No lie, Detective. As I said, I was going to do it; I certainly had reason to. But then—someone beat me to it. Put your hands on your head. Both of you.”
Virginia and me did as instructed. I said, “Bullshit.”
LaVey said, “Why would I lie? I mean, really. Why on earth would I lie at this stage? Perhaps you haven’t noticed it, but I have the upper hand here. I could have you shot dead…” She snapped her fingers. “…like that. So again: why would I lie? Why should I bother?”
“You’re telling me Erika Baton didn’t bludgeon that girl to death, and you know nothing about it if she did?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Erika certainly did kill her—we all know that. But I had nothing to do with it. I won’t deny that I was happy it had happened; I played along as circumstances dictated. I took advantage. That’s what visionaries do: they see the flows and currents of fate and use them to their advantage.”
I laughed bitterly. “A visionary? That’s how you see yourself?”
“That’s how everybody sees me.”
I tutted with contempt. LaVey went on, “No, the Greenhill girl’s death was not due to me. However, I did subsequently pay Ms Baton for her…services.”
“Bethany Gilbert.”
“Correct. I can see now why you’ve flown through the ranks of the Hera City Police Department. And, of course, she was also paid to do you.” An angry look passed over her face. “Stupid bitch couldn’t manage that one. But it’s my own fault. I should have known better than to employ a sexual psychotic like Erika. And where the hell is she, anyway? Anneka?”
Klosterman gestured that she didn’t know. LaVey stubbed out her cigarette and said, “That moron could have just shot you but she had to be clever; she couldn’t do it the easy way. Jesus Christ, she even took care of Bethany Gilbert on campus! Soiling my beautiful institution like that. Dirtying my place of love and splendor with the sticky grime of death… She’s lucky I haven’t taken out a hit on her.”
“There’s no need. She’s dead already.” LaVey frowned. “How?”
“I blew her fucking brains all over the floor. It was, ah, it was sticky and grimy. Oh yeah.”
More lightning outside, flashing incredibly brightly; the latticed window of the lighthouse looked like a chessboard on fire. I felt momentarily overwhelmed, almost afraid to move, to attract its attention. I sensed Virginia moving closer to me, her body still giving off warmth despite her lack of clothing.
LaVey was pondering what I’d said. Eventually she shrugged and said lightly, “Oh well. Comes with the territory, I suppose. The world is a better place without Erika Baton, I think you’ll agree, Detective.”
I forced some bravado into my voice: “And it’ll be better yet when you join her.”
She smiled and clapped her hands. “How charming. The feisty little cop, defiant to the last. …You know, I like you, Det—may I call you Eugenie? I like you, Eugenie. I really do. You’ve got fire in you. You remind me of myself as a younger woman.”
“We are nothing alike, LaVey. I’m a normal human being, you’re a fucking crackpot.”
“You see? Fire. I like that.” She paused. “Go ahead. Ask me some questions. Anything you want to know. Anneka, give her a cigarette.”
Klosterman stomped over and jammed a smoke in my mouth without asking. I didn’t object. Instead I nodded towards Virginia and said, “Her too.” Klosterman looked back at LaVey. I said mockingly, “Come on, Superwoman. You don’t need permission to give someone a cigarette, do you?” The monster looked back at LaVey again, then at me, then gazed into space like she was working something out in her head. Finally she shoved a smoke into Virginia’s mouth also, and lit up both of us.
I took a few puffs and said, “Bethany Gilbert. Why? What possible threat was she to you?”
“The silly girl had been drunkenly shooting her mouth off about Madeleine Greenhill, how her death was connected to The Goddess Rising,” LaVey said. “All over the town. She had no proof, of course, but I couldn’t allow her to attract—the wrong kind of attention, shall we say. The likes of you, Eugenie. Clever little police officers with a keen nose. Snooping around, looking into my business…”
“She could have blown the whole thing wide open. Your sordid little empire, blown to smithereens.”
She ignored that and said, “By that stage, anyway, we reckoned you were on the scent. That’s why Erika used a different weapon to her usual one: to throw you off, make you think it was a different killer. Why she used that cactus, I don’t know. I didn’t care. I was more concerned about why she did it on my campus.”
The Polka Dot Girl Page 30
