The Merchant of Death (Playing the Fool, #2)

by Lisa Henry

  “You got shot in our cabin?”

  “Well, outside.” He winced, recalling the damage. “But it’s cleared up now. I mean, as far as I know all the crime scene guys are done. And I’ll replace the bedroom rug.”

  Shit shit shit.

  “Why? What happened to the bedroom rug? Ryan?”

  He rubbed his hand across his forehead and tried his very best to explain in a way that would not cause his mom to freak out entirely. Half an hour later, chalking that up to a failure, he finally disconnected the call and turned back to his computer.

  This time he typed in a different name.

  Viola Hanes.

  He got an address in Zionsville.

  A dog’s low, rough bark made Viola jump beside Henry.

  “Don’t worry.” Henry guided her around to the side of the house, to a scuffed white door. “That’s just Doorbell.”

  He saw Viola look in the direction of the neighbor’s yard, where a red and white pit bull stood behind chain-link. The dog lifted its head and barked again.

  “Hey buddy,” Henry said.

  Doorbell kept barking, but he was wagging his tail.

  “He always does that when someone new comes around.”

  “Can I pet him?” Viola started toward the fence.

  “Maybe later, okay Vi? We should go inside.”

  The Court of Miracles was a basement apartment outside Indianapolis. Home to Stacy, Henry’s friend and fellow con artist. Stacy had been in the game a lot longer than Henry had. She was fifty-six but had the energy of a woman half that age. There was a whole gang that hung out at Stacy’s: cardsharps and con artists, hackers and forgers. They’d dubbed the apartment the Court of Miracles last year in homage to the gypsy lair in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. People came and went, and they all had their own projects they were working on, but it was nice to have a central location. Crime was a lonely business, Stacy always said.

  Henry was nervous about bringing Viola here. The Court was a strange place at the best of times, but with Remy using, and Carson taking advantage of Remy’s desperation for money, and Gerald back in town . . .

  He would definitely have to rely on Stacy to keep Vi safe.

  There was the added problem that he didn’t want Viola exposed to these people and their world. Bad people, he couldn’t help thinking, even though he was one of them. Viola was an adult, but her injury had left her as impressionable as a child. Doctors had estimated her mental capacity to be around that of an eight-year-old. Henry wasn’t so sure. He still saw flashes of the adult Vi. Those flashes had given him false hope: surely there was a way to unlock whatever part of her brain had been shuttered off. He’d thought if he could just get enough money together, he could get Vi out of St. Albinus and somewhere they could offer her state-of-the-art treatment.

  It had taken him a long time to accept that Viola wasn’t going to be fixed. That the best thing he could do was accept who she was now—still his sister, still beautiful and amazing and smart as hell. Still his best friend.

  For so many years, they’d taken pride in the way they thought alike. In their shared interests and ability to read each other. And yet Henry had always valued their differences as well, the things that identified them as individuals. Viola scorned romantic comedies, while Henry steered clear of anything that didn’t have a happy ending. Vi was athletic, while Henry preferred art. Copying images and signatures. Designing costumes. Mimicking people’s body language.

  They weren’t the same person; never had been and never wanted to be. Yet their closeness was what he’d clung to when everything else was going to shit. He couldn’t shake the guilt, the feeling that he was responsible not only for damaging Viola, but for severing the connection between the two of them.

  She should hate him. But he’d robbed her even of the ability to understand what an asshole he was.

  “Don’t be nervous, Vi,” Henry whispered as he shut the door behind them and led the way down the stairs to the basement. “Some of my friends are a little weird, but they’re all right.”

  Viola giggled. “You have weird friends?”

  He turned to her and grinned. “I do.”

  “So do I.”

  He thought about Mr. Crowley. Fair enough.

  He opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and led Viola into the Court. It was surprisingly clean. Mismatched furniture, a dartboard on the wall with an FBI recruiting poster taped over it—the poster was new—and a couple of Gerald’s impressive art forgeries on the other walls. “Paintings,” Gerald insisted. “They’re only forgeries if you try to sell them as the real thing.” Which Gerald would do one day, no doubt.

  Viola gazed around. “Is this where you live?”

  Henry happened to glance down and saw that she was barefoot. He looked back toward the door. She’d slipped her shoes off when they’d come in.

  Their mother had always tried to get them to take their shoes off before coming inside when they were kids. And ninety percent of the time they’d been too excited, too full of energy, too eager for the next stage in whatever game they were playing, to bother.

  “This is where I stay sometimes.”

  Viola looked at him. “But where do you live?”

  He hesitated. “I travel around a lot. You know that. I don’t really live anywhere.”

  “I have to stay at St. Albinus.” Viola didn’t say it like an accusation, but Henry flinched all the same. “But not while the angel’s there. Maybe now I could live somewhere else. Like here!” She hit his shoulder, then laughed.

  He smiled and rubbed his shoulder. Didn’t say anything about what a sad thought that was—Viola living here.

  “About the angel,” he said, leading her toward the kitchen. “Does Ms. Eiling think anything funny’s going on?”

  “Ms. Eiling doesn’t work there anymore.”

  He stopped and turned to her. “What?” Barbara Eiling had been the director at St. Albinus since Viola had arrived there seven years ago. He’d met her once or twice. Liked her. Trusted her, which was rare.

  “A man works there now. His name is Mr. Carlisle, and he shaves his face but forgets right here.” Viola ran her index finger under her chin down to her throat.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” A mostly rhetorical question. He didn’t have an address, and it had been weeks since he’d visited St. Albinus. He’d called a couple of times to talk to Vi, but he hadn’t made himself accessible to the care center for news updates.

  Viola looked puzzled. “I don’t know.”

  “How long has he worked there?”

  “He came on a game day.”

  St. Albinus often had pizza parties in the common area on Hoosier game days. Henry knew fuck all about the football schedule though. “This month? Last month?”

  “Two months. The first game day. He has a friend too.”

  “Who’s his friend?”

  “She’s an old lady.”

  “A nurse?”

  Viola nodded. Her attention had been caught by someone’s shirt on the couch. Remy’s. A couple of sizes too small for any adult, and ripped in strategic places.

  “Well, what does Mr. Carlisle think of the angel, then?”

  Viola didn’t have time to answer, because Carson stepped out of one of the back rooms. Of course he’d be the first person they would meet.

  “Carson,” Henry said, not trying too hard to sound polite.

  “Who’s this?” Carson looked Viola up and down.

  Fuck. Henry had been kidding himself if he’d thought Carson wouldn’t be a problem. Just the glimpse of the guy’s hairy gut poking out from under his shirt made him sick. Reminded him of too many men he’d known as a teenager who thought they had claim to anything they wanted. Who wore their lack of grooming like a badge of pride. Who stared at you, just like Carson was staring, because they knew it made you feel small.

  He figured his disgust with Carson was fueled by what Carson had done—was maybe still doing—to Remy. Rem
y no longer seemed capable of refusing any chance to make a few bucks. And Carson had been taking full advantage of that. “Look what this little faggot will do for twenty bucks,” Carson had said incredulously when Henry had walked in on them a few months ago. And he’d tangled a hand in Remy’s hair and pushed Remy’s head farther down.

  Remy hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t even made an effort to look at Henry.

  “This is my sister,” he said tersely. “You seen Stacy?”

  “Taking a bath.” Carson didn’t take his gaze off Viola. “Your sister, huh? You two twins?”

  Ya think?

  “Yes,” Viola said. But she stepped a little closer to Henry, and didn’t make an effort to talk to Carson beyond that.

  “Stacy?” Henry called.

  “In a minute, hon,” Stacy said from the back of the apartment.

  The Court was pretty big—they had the entire basement of the house, and the couple who lived upstairs traveled a lot. Stacy got reduced rent for watering the plants.

  “Who else is here?” he asked Carson.

  Carson grunted. “Jo.”

  No Remy, then. Remy was out doing God knew what.

  But at least he wasn’t doing God knew what with Carson.

  Henry glanced at the poster covering the dartboard. A picture of an agent in a dim room staring out a window, the words “FBI: Justice For All” underneath. Three darts through the agent’s face. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it a couple of weeks ago. Before Mac. You had to decide which side you were on. Criminals didn’t work with feds.

  Unless you fucked up, and they caught you. Unless they caught you and you were too much of a coward to tell them to go fuck themselves. Unless you made a deal—your fucking cooperation in exchange for their pathetic efforts to keep you safe from a psychotic mob boss.

  Who kept you safe from the FBI? he wondered bitterly, thinking of Jeff Cavill.

  And who the fuck had Mac been to tell him he could make something better of himself? To imagine Henry needed his advice on how to live his life?

  Suddenly he wanted to throw darts at the poster.

  He hadn’t even been caught committing a crime; he’d been caught witnessing a crime, for Christ’s sake. And he’d hung around like an idiot, and called the cops. You try to do a decent thing . . .

  Stacy padded down the hall with a towel wrapped around her, leaving wet footprints on the blue carpet. Carson whistled.

  “Oh, shut up.” Stacy clouted the back of his head as she passed him. “Henry, is that really you?”

  “The one and only.” Henry hugged her.

  “His name’s Sebastian,” Viola said.

  Henry cleared his throat. “I actually have a different name with my friends, Vi. They call me Henry.”

  “Why?”

  “Like the play.”

  Viola smiled suddenly. “Oh! Like King Henry.”

  “Yep.”

  “Hello, Viola,” Stacy said, extending her hand. “Henry’s told me a lot about you.”

  Viola shook Stacy’s hand. “H’llo.” She was studying the tattoo of some Eastern goddess on Stacy’s upper right arm. Reached out to touch it.

  Henry caught her wrist. “Um, Vi?”

  Viola looked at him.

  “It’s all right.” Stacy held her arm out. “Check it out. It’s one of my favorites.”

  Viola traced the goddess’s outline.

  “Lakshmi,” Stacy said. “Hindu goddess of money and good fortune.”

  “Oh.” Viola paused with her finger on Lakshmi’s crown.

  Stacy glanced at Henry. What’s she doing here? What the hell are you thinking? Stacy’s face was never hard to read, unless she was playing cards.

  He shifted. “Viola needs a safe place to stay for a while. Just for a little while!” he added, as Stacy opened her mouth. “Just until I can investigate something.” He lowered his voice. “I can give you money.”

  Carson snorted. “You run a boarding house here, Stace?”

  “Carson, could you give us a little privacy?” Stacy’s voice was cool.

  Carson scratched his belly and wandered back to his room.

  “Is this a good idea?” Stacy demanded as soon as Carson was gone.

  “It’s my only idea.” Henry heard Carson’s door click shut.

  Stacy turned to Vi. “Viola, I would love to have you stay here and get to know you better. But the house is a little full right now.”

  “I could camp outside.” Viola glanced at Henry. “Like we used to.”

  He tried not to remember. “Gotta keep you inside, Vi. Make sure no one can find you.” He looked at Stacy again. “Please? I swear, I’ll be back in two days. Three max. Keep an eye on her. Don’t let Carson bother her.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter!” Viola said angrily, grabbing Henry’s arm and squeezing.

  “I know you don’t. I know.” He pried her fingers off. He tried not to let anxiety make him sound impatient. “But you need help with food. And you want company, right?”

  Viola’s eyes watered. She pressed the heels of her hands into them. “I want to see Mr. Crowley.”

  Shit. She was going to cry. And he felt awful, because for a second he was more concerned about her blowing her chance to be allowed to stay at the Court than he was about her distress. He could see Stacy warring between sympathy and the knowledge that it was completely impractical to host Viola here.

  Just then, the door to the front bedroom opened, and Jo walked out wearing layer upon bustled layer of artfully tattered skirts, a black corset studded with tiny rhinestones, gray stockings with what looked like funnel clouds winding down each leg, and granny boots. Her black curly hair was done up in two long braids caged in silver, and she’d dusted her dark skin with some kind of shimmery powder.

  “Henry!” she said. “I thought I heard your voice.” She twirled, the layers of her skirts flying out. “What do you think?”

  “Nice. What’s the occasion?”

  “Dream Con is coming up. I’m going to attend.”

  “. . . Because you love nerdy trading card games?”

  “Because I’m going to steal the country’s most valuable collection of first edition Dream Wars cards.”

  “Ah.” Henry stepped slightly in front of Viola, as though that might somehow shield her from Jo’s casual admission. “Um, Viola, this is Jo. Jo, this is my sister, Viola. She’ll be staying here for a few days.” He glanced at Stacy, who closed her eyes briefly, but nodded.

  Viola chewed her thumbnail, eyes still a bit red. But she stared at Jo’s stockings and eventually smiled. “I like your socks.”

  “Thanks. They’re not quite the right size, but I like them. I’m going as Admirella Cesan. I want the costume to be good, but not so good that I attract a lot of attention.” She grinned. “And of course I went for the character who’s a cat burglar.”

  Henry tried to laugh. “I don’t really follow nerd culture.” He wanted to get Jo off the subject of stealing. He’d never been ashamed of what he and the others did, exactly. He considered it a necessity, and there were a lot of times he enjoyed playing the system. But now it seemed all wrong. This place. The dartboard. The people. What they did. He wished he could have led Viola into some luxury apartment he’d bought with his own damn money and said, Here. You can live here, and you never have to go back to a care center.

  He used to imagine that all the time—that one day he’d find a way to bring Viola home, to look after her himself. But it had never been possible. Any money he made had to go to St. Albinus—a top-notch care center, to be sure, but no substitute for a home. He was stuck. He couldn’t stop paying for Viola to be there, but he couldn’t afford to get her out if the bills kept sucking him dry.

  Stacy nudged him. “You heard from Remy?”

  Henry shook his head.

  “He went off with Lonny a couple of days ago.”

  Shit. Lonny Harris used to be a half-decent fence. Now he didn’t do much but shoot up. Lonny and Remy had
bonded over a mutual love of heroin, and now whenever Lonny was in town, they ended up in each other’s company.

  “Not here.” Henry kept his voice low. He nodded at Viola, who was still studying the pattern of Jo’s stocking. Her fingers were twitching, like she was aching to touch.

  “Just thought you should know.”

  Like Henry needed one more thing to worry about right now.

  “Are you playing dress-up?” Viola asked Jo, looking up.

  “You bet I am. I’ll have to get you to model some costumes for me while you’re here. Maybe some boy’s outfits, since you’re so tall.”

  Her words jolted Henry. He still didn’t have a plan for how to investigate the bad angel. But now he wondered . . .

  He was never going to get access to the St. Albinus facility as a visitor. And he’d already impersonated a doctor once this week—it would be pushing his luck to try that again. Plus he’d looked at the embroidery on his borrowed lab coat since then and seen that it said “Patricia Gordon, Makeup Artist” on it. So, you know, oops.

  He also knew that as long as Viola was missing, St. Albinus would be looking for her. And as long as they were looking for her, she was in danger.

  There was only one plan he could think of that would both give him inside access to the care center and end St. Albinus’s search for Viola. He’d played a lot of roles in his life, but never one like this. But if Rosalind could manage it in As You Like It, if Portia could manage it in The Merchant of Venice . . .

  “Jo,” he said. “I’m gonna need you to help me with a costume.”

  “Sure.” Jo straightened her skirt. “What do you need?”

  “I need you to make me look like Viola.”

  Jo tilted her head. “You already look like her.”

  He took a deep breath. You didn’t think about failure going into something like this. You couldn’t afford to.

  “I know,” he said. “But Jo? I need you to make me look exactly like her.”

  A file landed on Mac’s desk with a thump.

  He looked up at Val. “What’s this?”

  “A little welcome back gift from Indianapolis’s finest,” she said. “Homicide.”