The Weeping Buddha

by Heather Dune Macadam

  Loch watched her bend over the tracing paper and begin outlining the marks left on Eric Heron’s corpse, then stepped silently out of the room and headed downstairs before she could yell at him. He figured he could pace on the second floor just as easily as the third and maybe learn something about art while he was at it.

  Having Hand was a stupid name for a sculpture. Loch walked around it and peered out the window at Mercer Street. His hand rested on the bronze momentarily. Cold. He started to move away but felt a semi-fascination by the chill creeping up his arm. He stared at the work of art, puzzled. Was this what Devon meant by the “art experience”? That some works touch you in a deeply personal way? But this one had physically touched him, and it wasn’t personal at all. The sculpture felt exactly like a cadaver—cold, waxy, unmoving. The detail on the hands was perfect, right down to every wrinkle around the knuckle and crinkle at the joints, every ridge … The top set of hands had a ring on the left ring finger that looked familiar. He had seen it before, recently. It was one of those sacred hearts—two hands clasped in prayer holding a crown. He squinted and searched the recesses of his mind—where had he seen it? Then he recalled; it was Edilio’s ring.But was it Edilio’s hand? He knelt down and looked up at the piece.There they were, every ridge and whorl and indentation necessary for a fingerprint, and as Loch stooped lower he could see more fingerprints embedded into the bronze.

  “Devon!” He leapt up, ran out of the room, and tripped up the stairs yelling, “Devon! Where’s your print kit?” She raised her head as a disheveled Lochwood burst into the room. “The kit, where’s the print kit?”

  She pointed at the tackle box sitting next to the couch. “What’s up?”

  “I’m experiencing art!” he yelled. “You were right. It is exciting.” He ran back downstairs.

  “Not that exciting,” she mumbled under her breath, while inking in what looked like chicken scratch to her but might be a decayed ideogram.

  Loch hadn’t pulled prints in a long time—it wasn’t part of his job—and he enjoyed the practical application of dust to the sculpture, watching it adhere to the detailed bronze and then cling to the Searchie paper. He numbered the hands from the bottom to the top, and even though some were sealed or only had one or two fingers free he printed them all. He was able to get one or two prints for almost every hand and about ten complete sets. He took pictures as he went, chronicling the sculpture from the base up and making copious notes about the position of the hands. He wanted to know who these people were whom Gabe had cast. Were they friends, models, or a collection of acquaintances that had come through his life? The way they were cast was curious—the desperate, clawlike gestures each hand made as if grasping at invisible straws. He felt the heat on his back of someone watching him and turned around.

  Devon was standing in the doorway, a bemused look on her face.

  “Hiya.” He was too chipper.

  “Whatcha doing?” she asked.

  “Printing this monstrosity.”

  “You are bored.”

  “No, I’m serious. There’re prints in the molds.”

  “Really?” She came over to the bronze and knelt down to the floor in order to look up at the piece. “How’d you find these?”

  “I thought about what you said that day you dragged me to the Guggenheim, ‘You have to look at art from every angle, not just the one mounted in front of you, to understand it.’ Remember? We were looking at a Jackson Polack and I thought it was glamorized spin art?”

  “It’s Pollock.” She studied the prints he had pulled. “I’ve been avoiding this sculpture for years because it leaves me cold.”

  “Well, that’s what made me think about it! Close your eyes and touch it.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Come on, experience the art around you,” he mocked.

  She did and shuddered. “It feels like a corpse.”

  “Exactly! One that’s at least six hours old, full rigor, and no body temperature left.”

  “And we care, why?”

  “Edilio’s hands are the last set cast.”

  She looked at the hands and the ring, then eyeballed the prints.“Shit, you’re right.”

  “I know!” He kissed her. “Let’s run the prints I’ve pulled and see if anyone with a record let Gabe cast them for posterity.” He handed her the print cards and grabbed the kit. “You get the fax off to Mr. Isshu Koga?”

  “Sent. He’ll fax us back at the office.”

  “Great!” He hugged her.

  “I don’t know if what I sent him says anything, Loch. The body was pretty deteriorated by the time they found him. It might just be decay and garbage from the bottom of the East River.”

  “Anything on the other two corpses?”

  “Nada.”

  “Then how come this one is all scratched up and the earlier ones aren’t?” She hadn’t thought of that. “Everything’s shaping up. Can’t you feel it?”

  “I feel pretty overwhelmed.”

  “But things are moving. We’re onto something here. Last night was not a random BE, and don’t be fooled by Marders; he doesn’t think it was either. He’s just trying to throw us off.”

  “The jerk.”

  “Yeah, he’s a lot like me.”

  “He just wants Detective of the Year. You know, you really ought to try sharing that award sometimes.” She liked saying things like that to Loch; despite all of his awards he could be so hard on himself, and she was inordinately proud of his achievements.

  “Why should I share the honors? It fits my personality to win.

  Anything else we need to do here?”

  She shrugged and looked at the last pages she faxed as if the secret could be unlocked from the ideograms. “Nothing that I can think of.”

  Loch pulled her into his arms. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Trust me.”

  “You’re crazy.” She turned her face up to his.

  “I love you.” He kissed her lips tenderly.

  “You just like the way I fax.” She suddenly found it difficult to return his gaze and wasn’t prepared for his sudden confidence, or was it a confession? Wasn’t this what she wanted, to be held, secure and confident in his presence?

  He locked her in his arms, searching her eyes as she had so often searched his. “I mean it.”

  She gently extricated herself from his hold and walked across the room to get her coat.

  See, I was right! You are afraid of intimacy! Beka’s voice seemed to be yelling at her from the corner of the room. Devon spun around. “What did you say?”

  “I love you?”

  “No, I heard …” she stopped midsentence.

  “A ghost?” he asked.

  She put her coat on, walked back across the room, and kissed him back. “I love you, too.” She turned to the place where Beka’s voice had emanated from. “Is that better?” she asked out loud. When there was no reply, she looped her arm around Loch’s waist and walked with him out the door and downstairs to their respective cars.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  It is like a water buffalo passing through a window lattice. Its head, horns, and four hoofs have all passed through. Why can’t its tail pass through?

  —GOSO HOEN ZENJI

  They tailed each other as they drove out of the city. First Loch led, then Devon passed him. She switched lanes and let him move in front of her to avoid a suddenly slowing cab. He returned the favor. They drove like experienced jockeys through the rat race of Manhattan. On the eastern side of the Midtown Tunnel, just as they passed the BQE, Devon’s cellphone sounded. “Just wanted to make sure it was working,” Loch’s voice came over the cellular. “What do you think about that black Beamer in front of me? Hot?”

  She pulled into the lane next to him to check out the car ahead.“It’s hot alright, Loch. But I don’t think it’s stolen and we don’t have time to find out.” She could hear him punching the license plate into hi
s police computer as she spoke.

  “Registered to Amil Ababbi. That look like Amil to you?”

  “Yes! Would you behave?”

  “Just wanted to have some fun.” His car darted across all three lanes to avoid Amil’s heavy-handed lane shifting. “What’s the connection that pulls our three victims together, besides the fact they knew each other and were at that New Year’s Eve party in 1984?”

  Devon chased his car across the lanes and thought for a second.“Art, dance …”

  “What else?”

  “There’s the Pilates connection. There might be a connection between art or dance and Pilates, but why the koans then?”

  “So, Zen has to be a part of it.” He dodged a white Ford Mustang convertible, owned by a Peter Olsen from Oakdale. “You’d look great in that car.”

  “I’m more of a ’57 Thunderbird girl.” She could hear him chuckle in response. “There’s no apparent connection between the Pilates studio and Zen except for Beka’s association with both, and there’s no correlation between Gabe’s art and Zen. Although a number of artists frequent the zendo,” she thought out loud.

  “You frequent the zendo.”

  “Not that frequently.”

  “You go, though, and you’ve studied Zen in the past. When I first met you, you referred to yourself as a Buddhist. I thought that was weird.”

  “Zen is nonviolent. You thought I was weird?”

  “Weren’t the samurais Buddhists? And look at the Chinese Buddhists against the Tibetans. Buddhism isn’t any more pacifist than Christianity.” Loch had a point.

  She suddenly wished she could conference-call on her cellphone, but since she couldn’t, she excused herself from their conversation.“Just thought of something, call you right back!”

  “What?” His voice was desperate to be included.

  She hung up on him, then pulled out the business card Detective Freesia had given her and punched in the number with her right hand while holding the phone in her left hand and steering with her left knee. “Carol? It’s Devon Halsey.”

  Freesia’s voice came crackling over phone, “Detective.”

  Devon halted. So, they were detectives again and not on a first-name basis. She wondered what had happened, then decided it wasn’t any of her business. “Why wasn’t Edilio Ferraro ever interviewed after Todd’s disappearance?” she asked.

  “Why would we have interviewed him?”

  “He was Beka’s dance partner in the ’80s and he was at the party.”

  “Did he live with them?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if he didn’t live in the loft and no one gave us his name, we wouldn’t have interviewed him. Why?”

  “He was in the photo the Post ran.”

  “That’s Ferraro? Beka told us she didn’t know who he was.”

  “She wanted to protect him … but why?” Devon wondered.

  “Those kids led us around by the nose with all their fake stories.

  The more I think about it the more I think they are responsible for Todd’s disappearance, indirectly if nothing else.”

  “I was one of those kids.”

  “You told us everything you knew; they didn’t. We had nothing to go on except what was told us.”

  “Maybe there really was nothing to go on.”

  “I just wonder if Todd knew about the coke. What if he threatened to tell someone?”

  “Oh my god,” Devon stammered. She could see Loch’s curious face trying to lip-read her conversation while still maneuvering through the traffic. “Carol, I’ll get back with you. You just reminded me of something.”

  “Devon?” Freesia’s voice had faltered.

  “Detective?”

  “I’m catching heat here for helping you.” Devon was sorry but didn’t apologize. “But my day off is coming up; thought I might come out for a visit. My husband can take care of the kids for once, I need a day off from the politics of police work.”

  Devon had to laugh. “Don’t try and fool yourself, Carol. We both know why you’re coming out and you’re welcome. We can use your expertise.”

  “Too bad we aren’t partners.”

  “We could wrap a few up.” Devon thought about Frank. He and Carol Freesia weren’t far apart in age and here Devon was, the youngster in the crowd, benefiting from their years of experience. “I’ll fax you directions to my house, but get there early, it’s hard to find after dark.”

  Devon got off the phone with Freesia and waved to Loch as she called Maddie Fong. Loch pointed to his phone, she stuck her tongue out at him. Maddie was not home so she called information for Godwyn’s number and called him. “God? It’s Devon.”

  “Hello, luv.”

  “Don’t luv me, God, I need to know what you and Maddie are hiding from me.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Sure you do, you were talking about it in the subway last night.”

  “You were in the fucking tube?”

  “What happened at the party with the cocaine?” It was a shot in the dark but she had a feeling she had hit her mark. “And if you don’t tell me right now, I’ll have NYPD at your door in twenty seconds to bring you in for questioning.” She could be a good liar.

  “I told Alex and Josh it would all come out now.”

  “Todd?”

  “He saw us cuttin’ the ounce we got for the party. We had all invested in it and had to turn it around fast, you know, to pay rent.”

  “Sounds like more than rent.”

  “Todd was really upset, but Beka cooled him down and got him to try some blow. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Everything is something, God.”

  “That’s not what happened to him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just don’t think that snortin’ coke is why he vanished.”

  So Todd had tasted forbidden fruit. “What about Sam?”

  “Sam thinks Beka screwed up, but then Sammy-boy was in love with her, too. You don’t have to tell no one, do ya, about the coke?”

  “Sure I do, God. Confession is good for the soul.”

  “Guv? You sure you didn’t know about the drugs? It wouldn’t look good to have that spread all over the news—that you used to hang out with amateur drug dealers. Might could ruin one’s career, a slur like that.”

  “Are you threatening me, God?” She hung up on him and called Loch back. “There are three party guests of our four in the photo that ran in the Post who are now dead, and one most likely dead but certainly missing. And the loft had a business on the side that may be related to this stuff.”

  “Yet another connection?” Lochwood was enjoying all these leads. This was like playing that card game Spite & Malice—everything was getting stacked up, but nothing could be done without that all-important ace. Once the ace appeared, the cards would fall into place. “Who else is in the photo?” She didn’t answer. “Devon? Who else is in the photo, and who took it?”

  “Me. God.”

  “God is in the photo?”

  “No. I’m in it. God took it. Godwyn Kamani.”

  Loch swerved out of the fast lane into the slower middle in order to digest what she had just said. The pieces of the puzzle had shifted and one or two dangling pieces suddenly seemed to fit in with segments of fact. “What else besides the party, Zen, and the photograph do these murders have in common?”

  “Cocaine.”

  “I keep tossing them at you and you keep hitting ’em!” Were drugs the cause or simply the effect of Todd’s disappearance? Beka had gotten clean but had she stayed clean? What if …

  “There’s something else that these murders have in common that you haven’t thought of,” he said quietly.

  She couldn’t think. Her mind was whirling—unable to touch on anything concrete—and she wasn’t sure why. “What’s that?”

  “You.” She stared hard at the road, knowing he had hit on something as soon as he spoke. Why hadn’t she seen it soo
ner? “You were on call the night Beka and Gabe died.”

  “But not when, or where, Edilio died.” She breathed more easily—maybe he was wrong.

  “But it was a logical conclusion that Edilio would be found after Beka and Gabe. Suffolk County Homicide was going to have to make a trip to their building. Why not send you?”

  “And that’s what you did.” Devon pursed her lips and took a deep breath, then began the list. “Maddie Fong lives on the North Fork, and I think she’s Buddhist. She was definitely one back in the ’80s. She was the one that started us all going to the temple in Chinatown.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I have no idea, but she was in the city yesterday with Godwyn.”

  “How about the rest of them?”

  “Alex, Josh, and Katiti live in East Hampton. Sam is in Westhampton.” She was speaking as Sam had at dim sum, without affect or variation in the tone of her voice. “Alex and Josh are Jewish. I don’t know what Sam is. But all of us used to study Buddhism, and we all had access to koans.” The traffic had stalled suddenly, as it did so often on the LIE.Devon called it congestive traffic failure, or traffic farts, depending on the length of time they spent sitting in one spot. Usually Loch would dart over to the access road or put on his portable siren and coast down the median, but today they just sat side by side talking on their phones and looking at each other through tempered glass windows.

  “What’s the motive?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” She needed him to lead—the significance of what he’d just said was only beginning to settle on her.

  His car crept forward a few feet then stopped again. “Let’s look at this slowly—the murderer impersonated you to get into their house.

  But how did the killer drug them?”

  Devon could see where he was going and answered, “Beka and Gabe had to know the killer, and the killer had to hang out long enough for the drugs to take effect.”

  “So, pretending to be you may have looked like a practical joke to Beka and Gabe, and a practical application for the killer.”