Abracadaver (Esther Diamond Novel)

by Laura Resnick

  “You’re sounding perilously close to a tantrum.”

  “You should have just let your damn cursed cookie kill me,” he said bitterly. “It’s wrong to make me suffer like this.”

  “Where is Nolan now?” I asked. “Not with you, I assume.”

  No matter how aggravating the guy was, Lopez wouldn’t talk about him this way if he were standing right there.

  “He’s with Andy,” said Lopez. “I won the coin toss.”

  This was good news. Nolan would be more focused on Quinn this way. And I was more comfortable with distance between Lopez and his partner.

  “And where are you?” I asked.

  “Police garage.” He sounded morose. “Returning another goddamn car.”

  That got my attention. “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “I have no idea. The police radio stopped working, so I brought it back to the garage. But they looked at the thing, and it’s working just fine now. So I guess I’m taking the same car back out.” He made an exasperated sound. “God, I’m tired of this.”

  “How’s your computer?” I asked cautiously.

  “That’s where I’m heading next. Back to the office to stand guard over the IT guy—at gunpoint, if need be—until he finishes fixing it. I’ve had it with all this crap. Can’t the department provide me with one single piece of equipment that works?”

  I wondered if it was relevant that the radio had started working again after being removed from Quinn’s presence. I wanted to get off the phone to tell Max about this.

  “Well, it sounds like you’ve really got your hands full—”

  “Thanks in no small part to you,” Lopez said. “You and I really need to talk, Esther. And not by phone.”

  “We’ll do that. Real soon. I’ve got to go now. Bye.”

  I ended the call while he was in the middle of saying something else. It sounded cranky, so I figured it was just as well I didn’t hear the whole sentence.

  “Max?” I called.

  “Is there news?” he asked as he came trotting toward me from the rear of the store.

  I brushed a cobweb off his woolly sweater as I recounted the relevant portions of the conversation.

  “Hmm. My instinct is that the renewed functionality of the police radio is deliberate,” Max said as he sat down at the table with me. “I doubt it represents a limitation of the demon’s power. Consider, for example, the car that broke down on the Bowery, where Detective Lopez waited in the cold for help for some time.”

  I saw Max’s point. “Quinn wasn’t present, yet the car remained dead.”

  “I hypothesize that the radio today has resumed functioning because the demonic entity intended it to do so.”

  “Why? That makes it seem like a . . . a prank.” I always thought of demons as more serious than that. More menacing.

  “Oh, many demons are prone to pranks,” said Max. “Especially demons that attach to humans, as we suspect is the case here. But the pranks are never harmless, though the word itself has a lighthearted connotation.”

  “This one seems harmless,” I said. “Pointless, but not harmful.”

  “We should consider the intent. Demons are clever, manipulative, and usually very malevolent. And they typically function with intent.”

  “What could be the intent of sending Lopez on a wasted trip to the police garage?”

  “The most obvious one would be to increase his stress and frustration.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “Well, yes, it accomplished that.”

  “You indicated the other day that these events are taking a toll on his equilibrium, I believe?”

  “You bet,” I said. “The stress of cars breaking down, phones going dead, his computer not working, his communications being unreliable . . . It’s really wearing on his nerves after several weeks of this kind of thing happening over and over.”

  “Stress, tension, irritability, frustration, anger . . . demonic entities feed off these negative emotions in the way that you or I derive strength and sustenance from food or a stimulating beverage,” said Max.

  “Not only those particular negative emotions, of course. They also feed off fear, sorrow, depression, hate, despair . . .” He continued, “But, particularly in the modern world where people are so reliant on mechanical and electronic devices, numerous species of demons find it conveniently easy to stimulate negative emotions by interfering with such things. Even a patient, contented individual will start reacting with predictably negative emotions to the sort of incidents that Detective Lopez has been experiencing.”

  And a man who was already stressed and frustrated due to his volatile relationship with a woman and various complications arising on the job would be even easier to manipulate that way, I guessed.

  “So you think the demon is inflicting these—okay, let’s say pranks—on Lopez to generate the negative emotions that it feeds off.” I asked, “Will it get full and stop, the way we stop eating and drinking?”

  “No, the appetite of Evil is voracious and always feeds on its own hunger. The entity will escalate its efforts as it keeps growing stronger,” Max said gravely. “This is a very typical pattern when demonic influence is at work.”

  “But growing stronger for what?” I wondered. “What’s the thing’s goal?”

  “That is what we must learn before it becomes powerful enough to achieve its aim,” he said. “We must also ascertain Detective Quinn’s precise role in this. For example, I am concerned that the intent in today’s prank may be manifold.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but this often happened when Max spoke, so I just said, “Go on.”

  “In addition to increasing Detective Lopez’s frustration—and adding confusion to his state of mind, which the demonic also finds stimulating . . . This prank also had the effect of separating Detective Lopez from his two companions.”

  “You think he’s in danger now?” I asked in alarm. “He’s being deliberately isolated?”

  “No, since our hypothesis is that the entity is attached to Detective Quinn,” said Max, “I am more concerned about the safety of Mr. Nolan, who may now be alone with him somewhere.”

  “Oh, I see. Lopez isn’t under attack,” I said. “You think he was gotten out of the way?”

  “He is a trained police officer, he has weapons and a strong protective instinct, and he is also a very observant, decisive individual . . .” Max nodded slowly. “I believe that manipulating Detective Lopez into leaving its presence, as has just happened, would be the demon’s strategy if it senses a desirable opportunity in its path.”

  “An opportunity for what?”

  “For whatever it’s trying to achieve.”

  “Back where we started,” I said in frustration. “All right, I’m going to call Nolan right now, find out where he is, and make sure he’s okay.”

  To my relief, Nolan answered his phone on the third ring.

  “How’s it going, Mike?” Subtle as a freight train, I reminded him, “This ride-along you’re doing with my friends was all my idea, so I wanted to find out if it’s working out well.”

  “Oh, yeah, great!” Nolan sounded enthusiastic—which was still an unfamiliar tone, coming from him. He also sounded like he was eating while he was talking to me. “I’m getting loads of material. Really good stuff. I should do this more often.”

  I hoped he didn’t say that around Lopez.

  “I’m glad to hear it. You’ve hit it off with the guys, then?”

  “Well, that Lopez guy is a wet blanket.” Yes, Nolan was definitely chewing. I tried to ignore it. “I mean, sure, he’s a smart guy, and he really knows his stuff. And you can tell he’s someone you’d be glad to have at your back if you were in a tight spot. But he’s got no sense of humor, he only talks if you ask him a direct question, and he’s really got a poker up his ass.”

&nbs
p; Those last few bits didn’t sound like Lopez at all, and I figured it was an indication of how much he had loathed Nolan’s company. I felt a little bad about that. A little.

  “Quinn is an okay guy, though.” As Nolan continued speaking, I realized I’d never before heard him talk this much about anything other than himself. This ride-along was having a remarkable effect. Maybe the demonic entity was bringing out the best in him? “He’s kind of morose, but a lot more relaxed than Lopez.”

  “Morose?” I repeated, thinking of what Max had said about negative emotions feeding demonic appetite. Using my pretense that this was acting research, I said, “Let’s explore that. Is it something you can use for Jimmy Conway?”

  “Maybe, but Quinn is more of a sad sap than Jimmy is.”

  Well, sure. Quinn had to deal with his own problems, after all, whereas Jimmy weekly got to vent his spleen on suspects, hookers, dealers, and other cops.

  Max whispered to me, “Who is morose?”

  I mouthed Quinn’s name, and I could see from Max’s expression that he wanted me to keep pursuing it. Still treating it like an acting exercise—we spend a lot of time observing human behavior so that we can portray it well—I asked, “Why is he morose? What’s the trigger?”

  “A woman,” said Nolan, eating again. “What else?”

  “His second divorce,” I guessed, recalling what Lopez had said.

  “I think he really thought she was the one, you know? She walked out a year ago, and he’s still not over it.” He slurped a drink, then added, “And she took him to the cleaner’s in the divorce, too. He’ll be paying for that marriage for a few years, that’s for sure.” Nolan added darkly, “I can relate.”

  “Does he seem angry about it?” I asked.

  “Sure, a little. Hey, maybe that’s what I can use. He channels it into this kind of brash, edgy attitude that’s got some potential.”

  I put my hand over the receiver as I explained quickly to Max what Nolan was telling me.

  “Has he told you what he was doing before he joined the OCCB?” I asked Nolan.

  “Worked in some god-awful part of the Bronx where drugs and gangs have overrun the place. Sounds like he investigated a lot of ugly homicides there. I’m glad you reminded me. I don’t want to do it while I’m eating—”

  “Oh, you’re eating? I never would have guessed.”

  “—but I want to get some details about that. I should take notes.”

  “That’s a good idea. It would be great stuff for us to discuss.” I did not look forward to hearing about a bunch of grisly murders, but it might be necessary.

  “This guy’s been around. There’s a lot of texture there.”

  Assuming Quinn would have objected to this discussion before now if he were present, I asked where he was.

  “On the phone, getting a ride for us. The weather’s rotten out there. Oh, and he was going to check in with his partner, too—wherever the hell Lopez is. He’s been gone a while. Anyhow, Quinn’s phone stopped working about an hour ago, so he’s using the restaurant’s.”

  I covered the receiver to tell Max that Quinn’s phone had died. Yet another electronic device. More disrupted communication. The pranks were escalating.

  Max told me to ask if the detective seemed like a religious man.

  “Lapsed Catholic, from the sound of it,” replied Nolan.

  Which is what Lopez had said about him, too. I had to hand it to the actor. He’d gotten a lot out of the guy in only a few hours. I wondered if Quinn suspected anything, or it he was just flattered by the interest that a TV star was showing in him.

  While Nolan had been talking, Max had been scribbling on a notepad in his elegant, archaic handwriting. Now he pushed his notes over to me. I saw he’d made a list of questions he wanted me to ask Nolan.

  I read them, then gave Max an uncertain look. He nodded encouragingly. So I sighed and dived in.

  “Say, Mike, have you guys entered any churches or houses of worship today?”

  “No. Well, not yet.”

  “Does Quinn appear to avoid them?”

  “Huh?” Nolan sounded puzzled. “No. We just haven’t had any reason to—”

  “Does he exhibit any ritual behaviors?”

  “He chews on a pen sometimes. He says it became a habit when he quit smoking.”

  Probably not the sort of ritual Max meant.

  “Have you observed him encountering any dogs or other animals?”

  “No. Not many people are out walking their pets in this weather. Why?”

  “Has he appeared violent or menacing at any point today?” I asked as casually as possible.

  “Uh, no . . . but that’s something I’d like to see. It could give me some background i—”

  “Have you noticed any odd smells or odors in his presence?”

  “What kind of odors?” Nolan sounded perplexed.

  I made a gesture to Max indicating I needed more information, then I read what he quickly jotted down. “Excrement? Rotting flesh?”

  “What?”

  “Sulfur? Decay? Putrescence?”

  “No.” Nolan added, “Jesus, Esther, I’m eating.”

  I moved on to the next question. “Have you observed any peculiar changes in his eyes?”

  “Whoa, does Quinn have a drug problem or something? Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “I’m just worried about him,” I said, which was not entirely untrue. “He, um, doesn’t look after himself.”

  “Yeah, that’s obvious. Have you seen his posture? It’s no wonder he talks about aches and pains. I should make him an appointment with my chiropractor.”

  “He talks about aches and pains?” I prodded, meeting Max’s gaze.

  “Yeah—in fact, about an hour ago, he kind of doubled over for a few seconds when he got this stabbing pain in his stomach. I think something’s wrong with his appendix. But, you know, that could be referred pain from his heart. My cardiac doctor tells me—”

  I held the phone away from my ear as Nolan prattled on, and I relayed this information to Max, who looked gratified.

  “Recurrent, unexplained pain like that is another common sign of demonic presence,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The evidence is mounting to the inescapable conclusion that Detective Quinn is oppressed.”

  “Oppressed?” When Max started to explain, I said, “Wait, not now. Is there anything else you want me to ask Nolan?”

  “Find out where they are now,” Max instructed. “This is an opportunity for us to confront Quinn without Detective Lopez being present.” He didn’t need to add that Lopez would be an impediment to such a confrontation.

  When I held the phone to my ear again, Nolan was still talking about cardiac stuff. I interrupted him. “You said Quinn is on the phone calling for a ride? Where are you—”

  “Whoops, not anymore,” said Nolan. “Quinn is waving at me to get up and come to the register. I guess we’re paying and leaving.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “A funeral in Chinatown.”

  “What?” I blurted.

  “Hell of a night for it. Quinn suggested I might want to skip it and go home, but it’s for that tong boss who flew off a balcony last week. The guy Goldman is claiming killed himself because of Lopez,” he said with relish. “As if I’d miss this.”

  “You’re going to Joe Ning’s wake?” I asked shrilly.

  Max’s eyes widened and our gazes met.

  Chen’s Funeral Home. Quinn. Another corpse in a coffin.

  “This is gonna be great,” Nolan enthused. “Loads of texture, a tong boss’s wake, authentic underworld characters . . . Jackpot.”

  “Mike, listen to me very carefully,” I said. “You mustn’t let—”

  “Gotta go, Esther.”

  I sighed heavil
y and set down my phone in frustration when I realized he’d ended the call.

  “That’s what it wants,” Max said, rising to his feet. “And that’s why it manipulated Detective Lopez into leaving his companions. The entity suspected he would interfere if he were present.”

  I rose, too, and followed him to the coat hooks by the door. He started donning his heavy outerwear (all new stuff, since his things had been ruined in the Yees’ fire last week). I grabbed my coat and started putting it on, too, since I gathered we were going to Chen’s now.

  “Max, I still don’t understand. What does the entity want?”

  “It wants a cadaver!”

  “A corpse?” I said with a frown. “A dead body?”

  “Yes!” He turned to his familiar. “Arise, Nelli! The game is afoot!”

  10

  Nelli had been very reluctant to wake up and leave the dry warmth of the bookstore for the cold, cruel, wet elements of this miserable Manhattan night.

  After standing outside for twenty minutes in the pouring snow (the best description of the frigid, wet, semisolid stuff falling steadily down on us), I wished I had sided with her instead of with Max.

  Fine, let the demon have a dead body. What do I care?

  In our eagerness to get to Chen’s Funeral Home, we had not considered the difficulty of getting a cab on a night like this, let alone the challenge of finding a taxi that would agree to carry Nelli. After a few minutes of exposure to the elements had drenched the dog and her winter vest and coated her big paws with slushy filth, we accepted the impossibility of our foolish quest, and I phoned Max’s pet transport service. Although Max was a regular customer and known for tipping well, they were having a busy night, so we wound up waiting much longer than expected—which was why we hadn’t returned to the store to wait inside. As a result, we were shivering and very damp by the time a sleek black SUV collected us from a curb in Greenwich Village.

  After giving the driver the address of the funeral home, I closed the plastic partition so the driver wouldn’t overhear our conversation. Sitting in a cold, dripping huddle, I asked Max, “Why does the entity want a dead body?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to ask it.”