Michael Baden

by Skeleton Justice

  Manny surveyed the scene with disgust. “You and Jake are going to supplant the Collyer brothers for the pack rat of the century title.” She kicked aside some forensic journals. “At least they left little paths to navigate from room to room.”

  “How conventional.” Sam finished a section of the Times and tossed it over his shoulder.

  Manny reached to pick it up, then stopped herself. “You’re trying to provoke me.”

  “Not so, dear woman. We simply represent different approaches to housework.” Sam stretched out his legs on the couch and reached for another section of the newspaper. “I’ll never be a clean-as-you-goer. Too Sisyphean—you push the rock up the hill every day, only to watch it roll back down again. I prefer the tactic Hercules used to clean the Aegean stables. Let things get really bad, then divert a nearby river and wash it all away at once.”

  “When do you plan to work that wonder, Herc?” Jake emerged from the kitchen bearing paper plates of Vietnamese spring rolls. “With all the china plates out of commission, we’re limited to nonsaucy food.”

  “Food. The great motivator.” Taking her spring roll, Manny plopped into an overstuffed chair. “Tell me again what Detective Pasquarelli said after he talked to the FBI.”

  Manny had reported her entire conversation with Paco to the police. Detective Pasquarelli had been very excited about the information and naturally wanted to interview Paco himself. But the FBI’s involvement in the case had compromised his autonomy. Because of the Sandovals’ diplomatic immunity, he had to get FBI clearance to proceed. As Manny had feared, it hadn’t been forthcoming.

  “Vito said the agent he works with directly seemed just as excited about this break as he is. But that guy’s low on the totem pole. He had to kick it upstairs for permission. They’re still waiting.”

  “That’s preposterous!” Manny said. “Diplomatic immunity is a courtesy; it should not be absolutely inviolable. In a case this serious, there should be no question about pressuring the Sandovals to cooperate.”

  “Maybe tomorrow they’ll catch a break,” Jake said.

  “Don’t count on it.” Manny leaned back in her chair and promptly shot back out again. “Ow! It’s booby-trapped.” She pulled the cushions away. “My God, there’s a scalpel in there!”

  “Sorry, dear. I was doing an experiment to see if a scalpel could make accidental incised wounds if you lean back on it in a chair. Guess the defense attorney will have to try harder because you just proved that his client intentionally killed her husband.” Jake then patted a space beside him on the love seat. “Come sit with me.”

  Manny eyed the cobweb stretching from the floor lamp to the arm of the love seat. “No thanks, I’ll just clear a space over here.”

  She pushed a box of old slides into the corner. “This is the problem with having a big house. The more space you have, the more junk you accumulate. You know, when I drove over to Club Epoch in Hoboken, I was seriously considering moving to one of those big loft apartments in a converted factory. Now I’m afraid if I lived there, I’d wind up hoarding like you two.”

  “I think you should consider it, Manny,” Sam said. “Think of how you could expand your shoe portfolio. But the time to buy is now. There are only a few factories left to be converted.”

  “The ones that are left all have hazardous-waste issues,” Jake said. “You wouldn’t want to expose your footwear to radiation. A Manhattan studio is much more salubrious.”

  “Your concern for my health is touching.” Manny began heaving newspapers off the window seat. “Couldn’t we at least get rid of some of these copies of the Times? They’re weeks old.”

  She paused to read a headline. “‘Vampire Suspected in Death of Prominent Physician’—this one’s from when Dr. Fortes was killed. ‘Vampire’s Lair Found in Brooklyn,’ ‘Vampire Tied to Bombing in Hoboken,’ ‘Mysterious Attacker Targets Opera Star.’ Geez, the Vampire’s been on the front page of the paper just about every day since this case started. This pile is an archaeological record.”

  Jake stopped chewing and stared at her, a crumb of spring roll stuck to his lip. He dumped the half-full plate onto the floor. Mycroft shot across the room and immediately tucked into the delicate mélange of shrimp and vegetables.

  “I hope you were done with that,” Manny said as Jake crossed the room to the window seat.

  Jake didn’t appear to hear her. He fell to his knees and began digging through the newspapers, scattering them left and right.

  “Jake, come on. I just stacked those for recycling,” Manny protested.

  “Help me find April fifth,” Jake demanded.

  “What’s April fifth?” Manny asked.

  “The day after the first Vampire attack. Lucinda Bettis, victim number one.”

  “Here it is.”

  Jake snatched the paper from her, quickly scanned the front page, then flipped to the Metro section. “Nothing,” he said, checking the inside pages. “Not even a little blurb.” He tossed the paper aside. “Now look for April eleventh.”

  “What are you—”

  “Here!” Jake held it up and immediately began paging through the issue. “Nothing on page one, nothing on the front page of Metro, but here on page B-four we see it. ‘Police Curious about Strange Similarities in Attacks.’ A six-paragraph story comparing the MO of the attack on victim two with that of Lucinda Bettis. Now, find April twenty-third.”

  Manny handed it to him.

  “By victim three, the story’s moved to the front page. Prominent mention of the blood draw and the needle mark left on the victim. As I recall, this is when the Post first dubbed him ‘the Vampire.’” Jake sat back on his haunches. “From then on, it’s been headline news every day in every local paper. That must be it.”

  “What must be it?” Sam and Manny said almost simultaneously.

  Jakes pointed to the sea of newsprint surrounding him and Manny on the floor. “This is why the Vampire drew blood from Fiore, Hogaarth, Fortes, and Slade even though they aren’t children of the Desaparecidos. He must crave publicity for his cause. When he realized what a stir his weird blood draws were causing, he decided to use that as his signature, even on victims he intended to torture and/or kill. The blood draw itself was unnecessary, just done as a flourish.”

  “A signature,” Manny whispered.

  “For someone who seeks publicity, he’s done an awfully good job of covering his tracks,” Sam said. “He’s got the police chasing after imaginary Islamic terrorists. You and Manny are the only ones who seem to know this is about the Desaparecidos.”

  Jake’s and Manny’s eyes met; then they both turned slowly to look at Sam. “He’s planning something,” Manny said. “Or, I should say, they’re planning something, because we know there’s a woman involved in this, too. She’s the one who posed as Tracy and recommended me to Maureen Heaton. She intentionally drew me into this case”—Manny reached for Jake’s hand—“and I bet, by extension, drew you into this case. They wanted us because of who we are, because of the results we achieved on the Lyons case.”

  “I think that must be it,” Jake agreed. “The story of the Desaparecidos has been around for about thirty years. The mothers and grandmothers keep up their protests, but the outrage has faded. There are still victims who’ve never been accounted for, kids who don’t know their true heritage. But people aren’t listening anymore. They want to forget about the Dirty War.”

  “And there are still perpetrators who’ve never been brought to justice,” Manny said. “I sympathize, but I don’t want to be part of the Vampire’s vigilante scheme. I won’t allow myself to be used this way!”

  “We may not have a choice,” Jake said. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Travis plays into their plan for a grand finale. I’d like nothing better than to deprive the Vampire of his big bang, but we can’t endanger Travis. If we can’t anticipate the Vampire’s next move, we may have to play out the game according to his rules.”

  Manny rolled over in her bed and
squinted across the room. The numbers 5:09 glowed greenly from her programmable coffeemaker. Given how exhausted she’d been the night before after coming home from Jake’s, she was surprised to find herself awake before the deafening sound of the built-in grinder pulverizing French-roast beans was due to kick in at 6:00 a.m.

  She’d been tempted to spend the night at Jake’s. The growing suspicion that she was just a pawn in some unpredictable scheme of the Vampire’s had made her jumpy and grateful for company. But she had an eight-thirty deposition in the Greenfield case and she didn’t intend to arrive for it wearing yesterday’s clothes. When she stayed at Jake’s, she lived out of her handbag, slept in his WELCOME TO THE BOWELS OF FORENSIC PATHOLOGY T-shirt, and returned to her apartment in the morning to change. She had no intention of moving parts of her wardrobe into his house. She didn’t want her cashmere and silk absorbing the smell of formaldehyde, and besides, it wasn’t that kind of relationship. She’d gone so far as to buy some French hand-milled rose petal and jasmine soap for his bathroom, strictly as a defense against the red bumps she’d developed from showering with his ghastly little bars of hotel-room freebies, but that was as domestic as she intended to get.

  Manny stretched out and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t fall back asleep, but she could rest in bed for a while until the coffeepot started its routine. The light lavender scent of her bedding lulled her, and she drifted, blissfully unconnected to the problems of the day to come.

  Somewhere in the apartment, a sound.

  Manny bolted straight up. There it was again: the unmistakable sound of a poodle retching. She realized that must have been what had awakened her early.

  She clicked on the light. No Mycroft at the foot of the bed. A bad sign. Whenever he was sick, he slunk off to the corner of her closet. The last time he’d had an upset stomach, a six-hundred-dollar pair of Jimmy Choos had taken a one-way ride on a Department of Sanitation truck.

  “Mycroft, sweetie, what’s wrong?” Manny opened the closet door and peered under the racks of neatly hanging suits and blouses. Sure enough, she spied a little mound of red fur in the far corner, behind last year’s handbags and her Uggs. Falling to her knees, Manny crawled forward and extended her hand. “C’mere, baby. Let Mom take a look.”

  Mycroft yelped as she slipped one hand under his trembling body and slid him toward her. When she got him into the light, Manny’s heart constricted. This was no “I shouldn’t have eaten all that mozzarella.” Mycroft’s eyes were glazed, his belly was distended, and he was breathing in short, sharp pants.

  My God, what had he eaten yesterday? Had he stumbled into rat poison in the park when she had tossed those gourmet treats to waylay Paco? Or was it that spring roll he’d devoured at Jake’s? Was there some herb in Vietnamese food fatal to dogs? Lemon-grass? Cilantro?

  Whatever the cause, Mycroft was in a serious crisis. As her panic rose, Manny’s mind went blank. What should she do, call 911? Pound on the door of her neighbor, the cardiologist?

  She took a deep breath. Getting hysterical wasn’t going to help Mycroft. Dr. Costello was on her speed dial. The vet could tell her what immediate action to take until she could get My croft over to him.

  She lunged for her BlackBerry, then waited impatiently as the vet’s office voice-mail system droned through its options. “Our office is closed now. To schedule an appointment, press one. To leave a message …” Manny’s heart was pounding so hard, she could barely hear. Hurry, hurry. Finally, “… If this is a true medical emergency, please dial 212-555-3680. The doctor will respond to your page within ten minutes.”

  Manny dialed the pager number with trembling fingers. Ten minutes! Mycroft could be dead by then. She felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience, listening to a voice describing Mycroft’s symptoms, begging for help, a voice much higher-pitched and rapid than her own.

  Ending the call, she sat next to Mycroft to wait, stroking his silky head. The little dog’s trusting brown eyes gazed up at her, begging silently for her to ease his pain. Why had she used him as a decoy? Why had she let him eat all that people food? Please, God, let him live and I promise I’ll give him nothing but Science Diet for the rest of his days.

  The phone rang. Manny snatched it up eagerly. “Dr. Costello? That was quick! Thank you so much for calling.” Manny described Mycroft’s symptoms and answered the doctor’s questions.

  “It sounds like he’s gotten everything out of his system,” Dr. Costello said. “But I’m concerned about the labored breathing. Keep him warm and get him over to my office.” Then he gave a little grunt of displeasure. “No, that won’t work.”

  “Yes! Yes it will!” Manny’s voice was shrill and insistent.

  “It’s on the other side of town. If he is in true respiratory distress, time is of the essence,” Dr. Costello explained. “My wife says you better bring him here, to our home. I have everything I’ll need here.”

  “Oh thank God! I’ll leave right away. What’s the address?”

  Manny scribbled on the only piece of paper she could find—page two of her Saks bill. She had no idea Dr. Costello lived so close to her. She could walk to his apartment; it would be faster than trying to find a cab before dawn. She threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and clipped on Mycroft’s leash. The poor dog was too sick to walk. She’d have to carry him, but she preferred to have him in her arms, where she could see how he was doing, rather than in his carrier.

  In the elevator, she pressed the B button. If she went down to the building’s basement and exited out the rear service door, she could cut one block off her walk.

  As she walked out into the gray dawn, the scents and sounds of the city greeted her, but the street and sidewalks were empty. At the end of the block, a trash truck beeped insistently as it backed toward a Dumpster. The smell of urine drifted up from the gutter. Tucking Mycroft under her arm, Manny trotted across the street in mid-block. A drunk sprawled on a sheet of cardboard, his dirty fingers still clutching a bottle of cheap wine, even in sleep. Manny averted her eyes as she passed him.

  Something caught at her ankle. Manny looked down in surprise and saw the drunk’s grinning face. She tried to shake him off, more in annoyance than fear. She had no time to be mugged this morning. She could hear other footsteps approaching from behind, and she took a deep breath to scream for help.

  An unwise choice. As her lungs expanded, they filled with the cloying scent of ether. The buildings dipped and spun. The sidewalk came up to meet her. Mycroft fell from her arms.

  “My dog! My dog!” Maybe Manny only thought those words, or maybe she spoke them aloud.

  Either way, no one heard.

  Jake extended his right arm, groping for Manny in the darkness of his bed. Pillows, blankets, sheets, but no soft curves, no tumble of hair. Then he remembered: Manny hadn’t stayed last night, something about an early-morning deposition. He was surprised by the depth of his disappointment.

  Oh well, I might as well get out of bed and catch up on a few things before going to the office. Jake headed downstairs for coffee and his laptop, nearly pitching headfirst off the second landing when he stumbled over a banker’s box containing the evidence in a police-restraint death that had arrived two days ago from Los Angeles. Manny was right: This place really was careening toward Health Department condemnation.

  Once the coffee was on, Jake popped open his laptop and logged on to his e-mail. The screen beamed at him, showing he had eighty-three new messages. He rubbed his eyes—could that be right? E-mail, a blessing and a curse.

  Cutting the green spot off a bagel he found in a bag on the counter, Jake poured his coffee and settled down to tackle his in-box. Yes, he’d be happy to speak at Quantico on the subject of bioterrorism; no, he regretted he would not be able to travel to Latvia to address a conference on investigating civilian explosions. Would he come to Athens in September for a week of in-service training? Damn! That sounded good, but Pederson would never give him the time off. These days, it seemed that keepi
ng Jake’s light under a bushel was Pederson’s top priority.

  Fifteen e-mails answered, twenty, twenty-five. Jake glanced at his watch. It read eight-forty-five. How did it get so late? I better get a move on. Somehow, Pederson was always standing by the receptionist’s desk when Jake rolled in at nine-fifteen, but never when he left at midnight. He scanned the list of remaining e-mails. Nothing urgent, except—

  What was this from Roger@mycollect.com? Could it be a response from one of those eBay collectibles dealers Manny had contacted about Nixon’s mug? He clicked and read the message. The dealer remembered the transaction. Jake stared at the screen. The buyer’s name sounded awfully familiar. He trolled through the many dusty file drawers of his memory. Sometimes his brain felt as cluttered as his house.

  Jake slammed the laptop shut. He knew that name! But from what part of this sprawling investigation? He’d have to wait until he got to the office and started searching the files. He headed for the door, then stopped and reached for the phone. Manny would know. She had the most amazing memory, able to recall the tiniest details instantly. He claimed it was because of her youth. Her brain filled her cranial cavity with the sulci and gyri of a virginal youngster. Not like his brain, shrunken and flattened.

  He dialed, but the call rolled immediately to voice mail. Of course—look at the time. She must be in her deposition now. Even Manny turned off her cell phone during depositions. He left a message and continued on to the office.

  • • •

  Manny’s head throbbed and her throat, parched and raw, protested every swallow. She opened her eyes a slit but quickly shut them when the room started to roll. She must be hungover. Odd, because she really wasn’t much of a drinker.