by Cleo Coyle
“Okay, but there must be other things going on that aren’t entirely—”
“The club is a useful asset to the intelligence community, Ms. Cosi. We didn’t want to shut it down then, and we don’t want it compromised today.”
Wilson leaned across the table. “Until now, Faith’s was the only murder connected to that club. Rozalina Krasny is the second. The Agency would like this case wrapped up as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“That’s what the Agency wants. But what do you want?”
“Call it closure. Or vengeance. After Faith’s murder, my superiors sent me back to Eastern Europe. They said I was too close to Faith’s case. Well, I still am.”
“I can see that.”
He drained his cup and set it aside. “Then see this—Faith’s death was officially recorded as a drug overdose. Her family never knew the truth: She didn’t die a junkie. She died a hero. And the use of that drug on two young women connected to that club is not a coincidence. I want to find Rozalina’s killer because I’m sure—in my bones—it will help me finally resolve the murder of my Faith.”
“Okay,” I said on an exhale. “How can I help?”
“Tell me everything you know, Ms. Cosi.”
“If we’re going to work together, you better call me Clare.”
He extended his hand, and I shook it.
Then I told Wilson everything I knew—about Anya and her connection to Red; about how the police were trying to pin the crime on Matt. Lastly, I revealed how Leila fingered Dwayne Galloway for murdering Red and drugging Anya, and that Franco and I were planning to pay the former pro-football player a visit.
“But does Galloway hold up as a suspect?” I asked. “Given your theory on the killer’s Cold War activity, does that make sense?”
He nodded. “After you spoke with Leila, I did a little research on Mr. Galloway—”
“But I just told you about Leila. How did you have time to do any—wait, you were eavesdropping on my conversation in the club, weren’t you?”
“What I picked up from your little broadcast was certainly more interesting than the conversations on my own listening devices.” The man was back to smiling.
“You know what, Wilson? I think you enjoy being a snoop.”
“Well, it takes one to know one, Clare, and from what I’ve seen so far, you would make a fine intelligence agent—”
“Let’s talk about Galloway,” I said, cutting off any windup for a CIA recruitment pitch. “Could he be involved?”
“It’s possible. He started out like many spies do, growing up wealthy, confident, and capable. In his case, he was raised by a horse-breeding family in Hunterdon County, New Jersey—”
“Wait! I read online that Galloway took gymnastics in college, taught by some famous Russian defector.”
“Rolf Tamerov,” Wilson said with a nod. “And here’s something you won’t read online. Tamerov defected for show. He was really here to recruit young Americans to the Communist cause.”
“Then Galloway might have been turned?”
Wilson nodded. “Not only that. Galloway attended school in upstate New York, but he spent his summers in and around New York City, including the summer of the August Coup.”
“And we know Galloway is a member of the Prince Charming Club. Leila told me so. Was he a member back then, too?”
“That I can’t confirm, although Galloway certainly could have joined. He was wealthy enough to afford it, even then.”
“But we don’t know for sure?”
“No, we don’t, but I think you and that young detective Franco are the perfect pair to find out.”
SEVENTY-TWO
“WOW,” Franco said. “Even Ye Olde Parking Lot is a party.”
The Meat-dieval Tournament and Feast was a massive faux-castle the size of the biggest big box store you could imagine, but with parapets, crenelated walls, a moat, and four towers beaming spotlights into the night sky.
Ye Olde Parking Lot (so identified by the neon signs along the entrance road) was expansive, too, and required “squires” with incandescent “laser” swords to guide us to the next spot. Medieval-ish music emanated from speakers, and a “Prince and Princess” tent was manned by more squires hawking souvenirs.
“Let’s remember where we parked,” Franco said, eyeing the sign. “We’re in the Domain of Richard the Lionheart.”
I grabbed the plastic-wrapped cape from the backseat (since Dalecki was kind enough to lend it to me, it was only fair to have it dry-cleaned). Then Franco and I followed an exuberant horde of diners to the front gate.
But when we crossed the wide wooden bridge over the moat, Franco steered me away from the box office to a double door marked Employees Only. There was a buzzer, but before he pressed it, Franco drew his shield.
The door was opened by a sour-faced security guard clutching a smartphone. Franco flashed his police badge.
“We’re looking for Officer Troy Dalecki.”
“Sir Leg of Lamb? He’s probably in the dressing area. Second door to the right.”
“Sir Leg of Lamb?” Franco shot me an amused look. I shrugged and we headed down a wide hallway, toward an odd scent combination of disinfectant and horse manure.
The antiseptic smell came from the “dressing area,” which more resembled a high school gymnasium’s locker room, with steel doors along one wall, benches in the middle, and a dozen athletic men in various states of undress. There was one difference, however. These guys were donning aluminum armor, not team uniforms.
I spied Dalecki the moment he spotted me, and we met in the middle of the room.
“A nurse told me I just missed you at the hospital on Sunday,” he said.
“You visited Anya?”
Dalecki nodded. “A couple of times. I feel bad about what happened.”
I’d seen his anguished expression before—on Mike’s son, Jeremy. Did I do enough to save her?
I couldn’t answer that. So I simply smiled and held out the dry-cleaned cape. “I came to return this and thank you again.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Cosi,” Dalecki replied. “And you should stay for the show. The Lord and Ladies Parade begins in twenty minutes.”
I introduced Franco while Dalecki tore through the plastic to reveal his cape. The back featured some elaborate embroidery. I hadn’t done more than glance at it. Now I realized what it was—two lamb shanks crossed over a plate of cheese fries.
Good lord, he really is Sir Leg of Lamb!
Franco suppressed a laugh. “That’s some coat-of-arms there, Troy.”
“Yes, we knights joust for the honor of our designated main course,” Officer Dalecki said without a trace of irony. Then he turned and pointed out the other Sirs, most still in their skivvies—
“There’s Sir Drumstick of Turkey. That’s Sir Loin of Beef. There’s Sir Barbecue of Chicken talking with Sir Ham of Burger, and over there is our newbie, Sir Salad and Sides.”
Franco elbowed me, too close to tears to speak.
I cleared my throat. “I gather the fans root for their favorite dish?”
“That’s exactly right, Ms. Cosi, When they place their order, they’re given flags to wave. Of course, the winners are decided before we hit the field. The most popular main course of the day is always the victor. Dwayne wants as many folks as possible to leave here feeling like a winner.”
Franco finally found his voice. “I’m guessing Sir Salad and Sides doesn’t win much?”
Dalecki nodded with sad resignation. “Sir Loin of Beef is the reigning champ. He wins practically every night.”
“You mentioned Dwayne,” I said. “That’s Dwayne Galloway, right? Is he here tonight?”
“He’s here most nights. This is his kingdom, after all.”
Franco winked. “Any chance we could meet and greet? We’
re big fans.”
Dalecki shook his head. “Nobody gets an audience with the King.”
The King?!
“Come on, man,” Franco pressed, “not even fans of his gridiron days with the Giants?”
“He’s done with all that,” Dalecki assured us.
“What if I flash my shield and call it official business? Can I see him then?”
“This is New Jersey, Sergeant Franco. Galloway will have his bodyguards toss you out, and his good friends in the township police will be waiting in the parking lot to arrest you for harassment.”
“So Galloway does have police protecting him,” I said. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”
“Nobody’s protecting Dwayne.” Dalecki replied. “He’s just a guy who likes his privacy and is willing to throw his weight around to keep it.”
Galloway’s fanatical quest for privacy made him seem guiltier than ever—and despite Dalecki’s assurances, I was starting to believe the police were protecting him—probably because Galloway gave so many cops lucrative moonlighting jobs.
Franco’s ploy of being a big Giants’ fan wasn’t working. His New York shield had no weight, either. I have to get Dalecki on our side. But he’s obviously enamored of his boss, so how do I do it?
As he turned his back on us to finish dressing, my gaze caught sight of that coat-of-arms again. To me and Franco, it seemed ridiculous, but to Dalecki, it was deadly serious.
I remembered my college reading of Roman de le Rose. With the rise of courtly love came that old chivalric code—a knight believed in a moral and honorable system, vowing to protect others who could not protect themselves.
It was a code worth believing in. And for a true knight, something does trump the love of King.
I tapped Dalecki’s shoulder. “This is really about Anya,” I revealed. “Franco and I both think that Galloway may know something that will help solve the case. We only want to ask him a couple of questions—”
And nail King Creep if he’s guilty, I silently added.
“Dwayne knew Anya?” Dalecki appeared disturbed by this revelation, which didn’t surprise me since he had to know about his boss’s reputation as a playboy.
“Dwayne Galloway was even better acquainted with a friend of Anya’s,” I carefully added, “a girl who called herself Red in the ’Hood. Red’s and Anya’s cases are connected, we think.”
“I’m sorry, I would like to help. But even I can’t walk up to him and talk. Dwayne’s always surrounded by his Men-at-Arms. If you have questions, you’ll have to go through his lawyer.”
“There’s no time for that,” I said. “Come on, Officer, think. There’s must be some way. Anya’s life may depend on it.”
Dalecki studied his boots. Finally, he glanced up, a light in his eyes.
“There is a way,” he said as the sound of heralding trumpeters echoed from the arena. “It’s unorthodox, but it’s the only thing I can come up with.”
“We’re ready for anything,” I assured him. “Tell us.”
Dalecki faced Franco. “You’ll have to volunteer for the gauntlet, challenge the Black Knight, and vanquish him.”
SEVENTY-THREE
OFFICER Dalecki quickly explained how the Meat-ieval Tournament and Feast’s most popular spectacle worked.
“Every night a volunteer from the audience is selected by lottery to face the Black Knight in Galloway’s Gauntlet.”
“What kind of gauntlet are we talking about?” Franco asked.
“It’s an obstacle course,” Dalecki explained. “Balance bar, rope climb and swing, hand-over-hand ladder, then down a sliding board. At the bottom is the Wheel of Fortune, a spinning platform that tosses you like a mechanical bull when you don’t approach it the right way. If you get that far, you have to complete a running jump from one platform to another.”
“Does the challenger have to beat the Black Knight to the finish line?”
“It’s not a race. If you finish the course, without falling, or being knocked off, you win. On the other hand, if the Black Knight stops the challenger from succeeding, he wins.”
“How does this help us with Galloway?” I asked.
“The prize for vanquishing the Black Knight is a free dinner with the King in his private box. That means two hours sitting at a table with Dwayne Galloway.”
“We have to try,” I said.
Franco actually grinned. “I’m game.”
“It’s not as easy as you think,” Dalecki warned. “I can fix the lottery for you to win the chance. The Monk owes me—”
“The Monk?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” Dalecki said. “But the problem isn’t winning the chance, it’s the course itself. The Black Knight will try to trip Franco up. He can do the same to the Black Knight, of course. Nobody will get hurt. If you fall, you land in ‘the moat’—six feet of water.”
“Doesn’t sound bad,” Franco said.
“We all learn the course in case we have to sub for the Black Knight.”
Franco eyed the men in the locker room. “Who plays the big villain?”
“Sir Loin of Beef,” Dalecki replied, frowning.
We all looked in his direction. The guy was clearly an accomplished athlete. He was also big. His muscles had muscles.
Franco’s confidence faltered and so did mine.
“Can’t you ask Sir Beefcake there to give Franco a pass?” I whispered. “As a favor?”
Dalecki shook his head. “Sorry, he’s not the kind of guy who does anyone a favor. Last year, he let a little kid win, and Galloway nearly fired him, so he’s very serious about winning. He’s also a little full of himself because he wins all the time. I wish you could beat him. It might bring his ego down to size.”
Dalecki pulled us close and lowered his voice. “Here’s the big trick—the platform is rigged. If you don’t make a running leap from the right spot, the final jump is nearly impossible.”
“What are my chances without practice?” Franco asked.
“In the five years this place has been in business, two people have made it through—the first was that little boy I mentioned, the one the Black Knight took pity on.”
“And the second?” I asked.
“A Navy SEAL.”
Franco blinked. “Okay, so it’s difficult. But it’s not impossible, right? I mean, you learned.”
“It took me a week. And that’s not all. You have to wear armor.”
“Armor?!”
“It’s no heavier than a Kevlar vest, but it restricts movement. And the helmet doesn’t help, either.”
“Helmet?” I echoed. “Hmm . . .” My little gray cells started working. “Does this helmet have a visor?”
“Yeah, it does.”
I stepped back to size up the two muscular policemen. Dalecki was a little taller, Franco a little heavier, but—
Yes, I decided. It might work.
“Listen up, boys. I have a plan . . .”
SEVENTY-FOUR
“HEAR ye! Here ye! Before his Majesty’s jousting commences, the moment has come for one among you to challenge the Black Knight on Gallowaaaay’s Gauntlet!”
The monk-robed announcer began his speech in faux Middle English but finished like a World Wrestling Federation barker. The cheering, whooping audience didn’t appear to mind the mash-up.
We’d already watched the King enter his box to great fanfare. Former Giant Dwayne Galloway sat on a high throne, contemplating his kingdom from the canvas-topped executive section in the top tier of the arena.
Franco and I were seated on the first tier, on backless benches before a rough wooden table. But at least we had a nice view of the Lord and Ladies Parade as knights; beautiful, spirited Spanish horses; and a bevy of princesses marched around the circular arena.
We’d placed our order. Franco cast
a vote for Sir Loin of Beef. I gave poor Sir Salad and Sides a much-needed boost. Now, my pea green veggie flag in hand, I waited impatiently for the lottery, which the monk-robed announcer had agreed to rig in our favor. (I understand a forgiven sports bet was involved.)
Meanwhile, Franco tore into my pile of “Fryer Tuck’s Ale-Battered Onion Rings”—one of my Sir Sides.
They were crunchy, hot, and delicious, but I was too nervous to eat more than two and settled for sipping my “Gingered” Ale from an ornate plastic goblet.
After more verbal theatrics, the Monk finally made a show of drawing a card from a wooden bucket. Then he spoke into the microphone.
“The poor, unfortunate wretch who will face the Black Knight’s wrath is . . . Mr. Manny Franco of Brooklyn, New York!”
As rehearsed, Franco and I jumped off our benches and hopped around excitedly. A pair of Princesses in coned hats arrived, to escort us to a stage entrance masked by purple curtains. Dalecki escorted Franco to the dressing room, while I waited on an uncomfortable throne facing the obstacle course.
It was an impressive stage, thirty feet high, with all the animated features Dalecki described and more. What the young cop failed to mention were the spinning lights, the disco ball, and blaring music.
Soon a confident Black Knight strutted into the arena to booming “medieval” hard rock. Clearly the favorite, the audience chanted his name as he climbed the ladder to the top of the platform.
Finally the armored and helmeted challenger emerged from behind the curtain. A spotlight hit him as the house lights dimmed.
“And here he is, Sir Franco! Step forward, noble knight . . . like a lamb to the slaaaaaaughter!”
Laughter followed.
“Salute your Lady, Sir Franco, and enter the Gauntlet!”
Sir Franco faced me, bowed once. I could barely see his eyes behind the visor, but I swore he winked. Then he turned and raced to the ladder.
“Good luck, my prince,” I muttered and silently prayed. Dear God, if you’ve got a minute, give him a hand!
