Epsilon Creed (Joe Venn Crime Action Thriller Series Book 5)

by Tim Stevens

  “What would you like me to be called?” she said.

  Blowfly peered at her, studying her eyes to see if he was being mocked in some way. It was something he was accustomed to, and he had a sensitive antenna for any hint that he was being jerked around. But there was playfulness in her eyes without malevolence.

  “Okay,” he said. “If we’re gonna play that game... I’ll call you Melinda.”

  She moved her lips silently as if tasting the name. “Melinda. Sure.”

  Blowfly asked her what she did. Once more, she skipped around the question. He pieced together little bits as she dropped them into the conversation. She was an artist of some kind – conceptual art, whatever the hell that was – and she lived in a loft apartment in SoHo. Blowfly tried to find out if she was alone there – if there was a guy on the scene – but she was evasive on that point.

  The drinks flowed. Blowfly kept the beers coming, all thought of moving on to a livelier place abandoned. But he didn’t want to get too loaded. It would be just like him to screw up what was starting to look like a lucky break on his part, by barfing over the girl or passing out at her feet or something.

  She matched him, drink for drink, though she didn’t seem to be getting even tipsy. Gradually the bar around them faded until Blowfly was aware only of her: of her lips, her eyes, the warmth of her physical presence inches from him. Their knees touched from time to time, and she began to rest her hand on his arm more and more frequently.

  Blowfly couldn’t remember afterward if she’d suggested that they leave, or if he had, or if neither of them had spoken but they’d communicated their wishes without words. But he found himself in the rear of a cab, heading back toward his apartment (he was still sober enough to be able to recall his address). The girl – Melinda – was pressed up close against him on the backseat, hip to hip. The aroma of her perfume was stronger than ever, filling not just his nose but his head with its musk.

  Somehow he found his keys and let them into the apartment, and somehow he managed to stay coordinated enough to work the various clasps and buttons on their clothes. They fell onto his narrow bed, kicking off the covers in their frantic struggle.

  The next few hours passed in a haze of sensation and delight, the details of which Blowfly couldn’t remember afterward, not that he cared. By the time he fell into a sodden slumber, midnight had been left far behind.

  *

  Blowfly awoke to a sheaf of sunlight hurting his eyes. He realized after a few seconds that his eyes were still closed, and that the pain was coming from inside his head.

  He cracked his eyelids and felt another stab of agony. The sunlight was indeed coming in through the blinds on the window. It must be well into the morning by now.

  He rolled over, confused, feeling his stomach lurch. As often happened after a night out, he peered around to see if he’d thrown up in the night. His eyes and his nose told him otherwise, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks for small mercies.

  Then he remembered the night before. The girl, Melinda.

  Despite the misery of his hangover, he experienced a thrill of delight. She’d been real; he hadn’t imagined her.

  And she’d stayed. She hadn’t been some hooker who’d made off with his wallet after he was out for the count, because his wallet was there on the nightstand, and he could hear her moving about somewhere in the apartment.

  Blowfly sat up. Once the room had ceased tipping and rocking, he got his bearings.

  The bedroom door was open and he could hear her in the kitchenette, rattling pots and pans. The smell of frying food assailed his nostrils. For a moment he wondered if he was going to puke after all. But he found he was suddenly immensely hungry. The thought of a whopping breakfast, bacon and pancakes and syrup, made his mouth water rather than his stomach heave.

  Blowfly got up unsteadily and grabbed a bathrobe from the floor. He raked the hair out of his eyes with his fingers and padded unsteadily through into the hallway.

  In the kitchen, Melinda had her back to him. An array of plates and pans covered the counter. Blowfly felt a surge of shame at the state of the kitchen. It was a filthy mess, but it had been that way before she started cooking.

  On the stove, bacon sizzled in a pan. Blowfly realized dimly that he hadn’t kept any in the refrigerator. She must have been out to the store already and bought some.

  Melinda glanced over her shoulder. She was fully dressed already, he noted with a twinge of disappointment. From the look of her, she was in better shape than he was. Much better shape.

  She smiled that mischievous grin again.

  “Sleep well?”

  He tried to answer, but it felt as though his throat was gummed shut and nothing emerged from his mouth but a rough whisper.

  When Melinda turned, Blowfly blinked.

  He wondered if he was dreaming, after all. Or, worse, if his drinking and drugging had damaged his vision permanently.

  In her right hand, hanging down and pointing at the floor, he saw a gun.

  “Sit down, Wayne,” she said perkily. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter 9

  Venn was up early on Sunday morning, around seven thirty. He wasn’t normally a morning person, but he had places to go, and he wanted to spend a little time with Beth before he set off. Beth, on the other hand, had been conditioned through years of early-morning ward rounds to wake up at six on the dot, without the need for an alarm.

  After breakfast together, Venn took the subway to the Department of Special Projects’ office. It was a crisp spring morning, the kind that promised decent heat by early afternoon. Manhattan was awaking lazily around him.

  Harmony and Fil Vidal were already at the office. Venn said to Fil: “It’s Sunday, man. You got a wife and kids.”

  “They take a while to get going at the weekend,” said Fil. He was a serious man, not given to wisecracks, though he’d loosened up since Venn had first hired him last summer. “I figured I’d get a little work done, then maybe head home around lunchtime.”

  Fil told Venn what he’d dug up about Martha Ignatowski so far. In fact, he did more than tell him. He handed Venn a book-sized folder of paper, neatly bound and with a laminated cover.

  “All of this?” said Venn, impressed and a little daunted, as he flipped through the pages.

  “It’s not exhaustive, yet,” said Fil. “It takes us up to her marriage to Donald Ignatowski. I’ll work on the rest this morning.”

  “Thanks.” Venn browsed the pages. There were biographical snippets, photos clipped from old newspapers of Martha as a little girl and a teenager. Even a copy of a junior school report card.

  There was probably way, way more here than he needed. But Fil’s thoroughness was typical.

  Harmony prowled around the office, impatient, itching to get moving. Venn said: “We’ll head out to Westchester first, to speak to the pathologist about the poison they found in Ignatowski’s system. Then I figure we’ll check out this banker guy, Torvald, who ran the fundraiser on Friday.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Harmony. “I’ve never been to Oyster Bay. I already set it up, FYI. Called Torvald’s personal assistant this morning, just before you got here. He’ll see us at noon.”

  “Good work,” said Venn. “Oh, and another thing. We’re going to have to take your car.”

  He told her and Fil what had happened to his Jeep the night before. Fil in particular looked appalled.

  “You okay, boss?”

  “Yeah.” Venn shook his head. “But I’m gonna need to get up to speed on that whole thing, too. Those guys outside the gallery. It’s not my case, but I’m interested.”

  *

  Venn and Harmony met Detective Harpin at the pathologist’s office in Scarsdale. The doctor turned out to be a woman, Frances Stein, a tousled fifty-year-old with glasses like the bottoms of Coke bottles.

  Venn introduced Harmony to both of them. He noted Harpin sizing her up, as he’d done with Venn himself. Once more, Venn had the sense tha
t Harpin saw them as intruders on his turf, which in a sense they were. The press conference had been held yesterday afternoon, and Venn had watched it on TV. Harpin had handled it masterfully, giving the impression of a cop in control, quietly confident that the perpetrator of Martha Ignatowski’s murder would be brought to justice, and fielding the sea of reporters’ questions with skill.

  And there’d been no mention of Venn’s involvement in the case, which was a relief.

  The pathologist, Stein, grabbed a couple of sheets of paper from the printer in her office and handed them to Harpin and Venn. “So it’s a toxin called thallium. It takes its toll on the gastrointestinal and neurological systems. At high enough doses, you get abdominal cramps, vomiting. Then you stared developing nerve problems. Weakness, poor co-ordination, paralysis. Sometimes hallucinations. There’s an antidote, Prussian blue, but usually by the time you’ve figured out what’s causing the symptoms, it’s too late.

  “Huh,” said Venn. “She didn’t look like she was sick. Apart from being dead, I mean.”

  “Like I say, the effects are delayed,” said Stein. “Usually by several hours. Ignatowski was killed at around midnight. My guess is she was poisoned late the previous afternoon.”

  “The poison’s ingested?” asked Venn.

  “Uh-huh. I’m no specialist in the forms it takes – just the effects – but it’s colorless and odourless. Wouldn’t be a problem to slip it into someone’s food or drink.”

  “So somebody poisons her in the afternoon, then comes round and beats her to death that night.” Harpin looked disbelieving.

  “Maybe they didn’t trust the poison to work,” said Venn. “Or weren’t sure she’d actually taken it.”

  “Yeah,” said Harpin. “Or maybe more than one person was trying to kill her.”

  “That, too.” The thought had crossed Venn’s mind.

  To Stein, he said: “How easy is this poison to come by?”

  The pathologist lifted a shoulder. “Like I said, I’m no kind of expert. It’s not the kind of thing you can walk into a store and buy. Although it works like rat poison, by interfering with the clotting process, this isn’t licenced for pest-killing use. It’d have to be concocted somewhere, or maybe stolen from somewhere. But whoever gave it to the dead woman knew what he or she was doing. This wasn’t some impulsive poisoning. It would’ve been carefully thought out beforehand.”

  Harpin looked at Venn. “Yesterday afternoon, Ignatowski was -”

  “At a fundraiser out on Long Island,” Venn cut in. “Yeah, I know.”

  Harpin looked taken aback, the hint of a frown ghosting his forehead. For a second he glanced at Harmony. But he didn’t say anything, and if he was annoyed that Venn had been doing his own investigating, he didn’t really show it. “So we need to talk to Carl Torvald, the man who was hosting the event.”

  “Probably all of the guests, too,” added Venn.

  “Yeah.” Harpin looked gloomy at the prospect. “There were around two hundred people present.”

  “But how many of them would have had the opportunity to slip Martha Ignatowski the poison?” said Venn. “Lots of people would have spoken to her. Hell, everybody there would’ve been trying to get close to her. But we should focus on anybody who might have served her a drink, or food. Anybody who refilled her glass for her.”

  “Doesn’t narrow it down much,” remarked Harpin.

  Venn looked at his watch. “We’ve got an interview with Torvald at noon. We better get going.”

  This time Harpin’s reaction was more surprised. “You’ve contacted him?”

  “Yeah.” This time Harmony answered. “It took a while to get past his ice queen of a secretary.” She put on a frosty upper-class voice which was at once outrageously prissy and toe-curlingly recognizable as a type. “‘I’m afraid Mr Torvald is really far too busy right now to grant any interviews. Please try again in a few days.’” Harmony shook her head, grinning. “I put the fear of God into her. Cited the obstruction-of-justice code at her, told her what kind of jail time she could be facing. Dropped a few hints about what might just happen to a tight-assed prima donna like her in a tough state penitentiary. Ms Iceberg thawed a little after that, I can tell you.”

  Harpin looked from Harmony to Venn, seeming to be making up his mind. Then: “You said we’ve got an interview. Does that include me?”

  “You’re the detective in charge of the investigation,” said Venn. “And I’m talking sincerely. No sarcasm. Of course you’ll be there.”

  “Good.” A steeliness had entered Harpin’s voice that hadn’t been there before. “In that case, let me make something clear, Joe. If I’m the lead investigator, then I decide whom we’ll interview, and when. I’ll set the schedule. Not you.” He glanced at Harmony, but didn’t say: or your lackey.

  “Point taken,” said Venn evenly. “But my partner and I move fast on these kinds of things, Detective Harpin. We’re used to it. Sometimes we just do stuff, without asking permission.”

  “Nevertheless.” The fight seemed to go out of Harpin. He nodded at Dr Stein. “Thanks.” And headed toward the door, saying without looking at Venn or Harmony, “Let’s go.”

  Behind his back, Harmony pulled a face.

  Chapter 10

  Unlike Harmony, Venn had been to Oyster Bay a couple of times, always on police business. Every time he visited, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the wealth, the sense of casual opulence worn lightly.

  And, he had to admit, the beauty of the place.

  Carl Torvald’s home was a mansion on a fairly modest ten acres of land, half of which was taken up with an exquisitely designed golf course. Venn didn’t play the sport, but he watched the big tournaments on TV, and, watching the rolling curves of the green, he marveled that Torvald’s course hadn’t ever been featured in any PGA event, purely for its photogenicity.

  Carl Torvald greeted the three detectives at the front door himself. He was a short, stockily dapper man in his early fifties, immaculately turned out in a pale-blue Italian silk suit and woven pastel tie. His cufflinks were tiny golden golf tees, Venn noted.

  Torvald’s name indicated Norwegian ancestry, and his thinning hair was indeed fair, as were his eyebrows and his incongruously luxuriant mustache. His face was lightly tanned in a manner that suggested vacations in exclusive resorts under natural sun rather than targeted sessions in salons. His eyes were the exact same shade of blue as his suit.

  “Detectives,” he said, shaking each of their hands in turn and surveying them quickly but efficiently, as though evaluating them ahead of a loan request. “I understand why you’re here, of course. Please rest assured that I intend to offer whatever assistance I can in the solving of this terrible crime.”

  His accent and intonation had that slightly sing-song Scandinavian quality Venn associated with Minnesota and Wisconsin.

  “That’s good to know,” said Venn.

  He’d learned a few facts about the banker on the drive down from Manhattan with Harmony. Carl Torvald had been the president of Lexington Bank for the last seven years. He was married with three children, two of whom had followed him into finance and one still in college. He ran a tight ship, and had lifted the bank out of the doldrums in which it had been mired after the 2008 economic crash, turning it into one of the most dynamic smaller providers in the eastern United States. It exercised disciplined restraint in its granting of mortgages, so that its customer base was relatively small. But it treated those customers extremely well, and it had high approval ratings as a consequence.

  Torvald’s personal wealth was estimated by Forbes Magazine at around two hundred million dollars.

  To Venn’s surprise, the banker didn’t offer them coffee. Didn’t even entertain them in his living room. Rather, he led them upstairs to an enormous home office, where he seated them on exactly the kind of slightly uncomfortable chairs you might find across the desk of a businessman from whom you were about to ask a favor.

  “So,” said Torva
ld, after he’d seated himself on the other side of his desk, in a high-backed studded leather chair. He’d even placed his hands on the desktop, palms down and fingertips pointing at the cops. “Martha Ignatowski.”

  Venn had taken an instant dislike to the man. It was nothing to do with his wealth or his status. Venn had no hangup about guys who were richer than him, or who were bankers. He didn’t hold with the popular view that all financiers were criminals, or that bankers were solely responsible for the current economic woes blighting the world. Politicians hadn’t shouldered nearly enough of the blame, in his view.

  But Torvald had a brisk smugness about him that rubbed Venn up the wrong way. He came across as someone who thought he could hoodwink the police into believing he was sincerely co-operating with them, while wanting them out of his hair as quickly as he could achieve it. In short, he came across as if he thought the police were dumber than a sack of frogs.

  Cops didn’t appreciate that attitude.

  Venn’s instinct was to jump in and take charge of the interview. To make it clear in no uncertain terms who was interviewing whom. To unsettle Torvald, and put him on the back foot, if not quite to scare the bejesus out of him.

  But Venn was curious to see how Harpin handled the situation. So he said nothing.

  Harpin waited a few seconds, watching Torvald, before he said: “Do you know Louis Q. Mykels?”

  The left-field question took Venn completely by surprise. It appeared to do the same for Torvald.

  The banker actually inched backward, straightening in his chair. He folded his hands, which Venn recognized as a defensive gesture.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s a straightforward question, Mr Torvald.” Harpin’s tone was mild, as was his expression. “Are you acquainted with Louis Q. Mykels?”

  Torvald recovered quickly. He glanced at Venn, his eyes slightly bemused. He said, in a voice which suggested exasperated tolerance, “The artist. Yes, I’ve met him on a few occasions. I wouldn’t call him a friend.”