by David Wood
He came to a T-junction and cursed. He’d remembered it wrong. The dirt track ran parallel to the sealed road. He hauled left anyway, sliding and fishtailing along the gravel, a thin line of trees preventing him from getting back onto the road he wanted. He dared a look back over his shoulder and saw brightness painting the trees behind him. Gritting his teeth, he pushed harder still, wincing as something metallic twanged and snapped under the small car. It began to whine and slow as he reached a loop of track that rejoined the sealed road.
“Come on, little hero!” he shouted at the car, followed the loop and then turned left again, zooming between the buildings of Fort Terry, leaving smoke and oil in his wake. Halfway through, the car quit and died, slowing quickly with a fatal grinding sound.
Crowley cursed, leaping from the vehicle and running for the same gap between buildings where he’d first seen the pick-up on patrol. As he ducked around the corner, lights bathed everything as both the pick-up and the SUV roared down the road side by side. They skidded to a halt, the road blocked by the broken car Crowley had just abandoned, but they’d know he couldn’t be far away. There was about a hundred yards of open grassy area between the last building and the start of the trees where he’s stashed his gear and Crowley bolted for it, running zig-zag, crouched low, his back crawling with the anticipation of a bullet any moment.
He’d made it maybe seventy-five yards when someone yelled, “Stop!” and a gunshot rang out. Then another, then two more.
Crowley instinctively ducked and rolled. He had no idea where the bullet went, but it didn’t hit him and that was all that mattered. He came up on to his feet and sprinted the last twenty yards, zig-zagging again as three more shots rang through the night. A moving target in the dark was a tough thing to hit. None of the shots got him, and the shadows under the trees swallowed him up.
But he didn’t pause, knowing his pursuers wouldn’t be far behind. He grabbed his tank, fins and mask and ran directly out across the beach, heading for the water. As he waded out, he crammed the regulator into his mouth and dived under as soon as he was beyond knee-deep. He thought he heard two more shots buzz over him as he went, shrugging into the straps of the tank awkwardly as he held onto the rest of his gear. Then he reached back, hauled a fin onto each foot, and paddled hard, blind. He just needed to get away, and stayed low to the sand, fingers trailing in it to be sure he didn’t inadvertently rise up again. He kept going until he was sure he’d got a good couple of hundred yards from the beach, then slowly rose to the surface. In the gloomy distance he vaguely made out four people looking up and down the beach, gesticulating wildly at each other. A couple waded knee-deep in the ocean, straining to see out over the water. But Crowley knew distance and the night concealed him. He slipped the tank more comfortably onto his back, settled his mask, and turned west, paddling for the mainland and his waiting hire car.
Exciting though that had all been, it was also a completely wasted night’s effort.
Chapter 16
Jazz headed out to Hell’s Kitchen and The Illustrated Dragon Tattoo studio. The shop had a large front window with bold-colored designs on it, the name in cursive calligraphic script across the top. Inside she saw several couches for waiting customers, large books of designs for people to choose from, and the sales counter. All the tattoo studios for the four or five resident tattoo artists were curtained off out the back.
She pushed the door open, triggering a ring like an old-fashioned candy store, and walked in. The walls were covered with designs, dragons and skulls, daggers and hotrods, Celtic and tribal patterns. Jazz walked to the counter as a young woman with a shaved head and multiple piercings came through the curtain from behind the counter. She had colors writhing up both arms, visible under the black singlet she wore. Jazz guessed there was a lot more ink under the clothes.
“Help you?” the young woman asked.
“Yeah, is Carlo in today?”
“He is, but he’s with a client. Can I take a message?”
Jazz chewed her lip. “I just need to run something by him. Can you let him know Jazz is here? I only need a minute.”
“I’ll ask.”
The young woman disappeared behind the curtain again and Jazz scanned the walls while she waited. Hard rock music piped in from somewhere, not too loud, but she nodded along regardless, wondering where the speakers were.
“Jazz! Too long, girl!”
Carlo came around the counter and scooped her up in a huge hug, massively muscled and tattooed arms as thick as her legs. He stood well over six feet, broad as a bull. His head was shaved, but a dark, oiled plait of pony-tail hung from the back of his head to halfway down his back. His cologne and the sweet smell of his hair oil triggered memories instantly.
Jazz laughed, returned the hug. “Put me down, you oaf!”
“Been too long, where you at?”
“Just busy, working, you know. It’s kind of why I’m here, I don’t want to keep you from your client.”
Carlo grinned. “It’s cool, he could use the break. He’s perishing under the needle in there, and only been at for three hours. What do you need?”
“Well, I know this is a long shot, but is there any chance you might recognize a tattoo?”
“If I did it, sure. I remember all my work. Photograph it too.”
“Sure, but what if it was someone else’s work?”
Carlo shrugged. “That depends. Some people have a really distinctive style, others don’t.”
Jazz pulled the printout from her bag and handed it over. “Any idea who did this?”
Carlo smoothed out the paper on the counter and leaned forward for a closer look. “Pretty unique design,” he said. He pointed at the pagan triquetra behind the solid lines of the pentagram. “This stuff here could be anyone, really.” Jazz deflated slightly, but he carried on quickly, tapping the softer designs in smooth colors between each point of the star. “This stuff though, the way it’s shaded, is more nuanced. There are two people in New York I know about who are into this pagan stuff and have that kind of touch for color. Doesn’t mean it was either of them, but it might be. Seamus over at Celtic Tattoo in Queens, or Ahiko K at Cherry Blossom Ink in Brooklyn. You could ask either of them. Of course, it could also be any of a hundred other artists anywhere in the world. This was definitely done in New York City?”
Jazz thought about how fresh the tattoo was and how dead the owner, and figured it was most likely, but she didn’t want to tell Carlo he was looking at a corpse’s arm. “I can’t be certain, but I think so.”
Carlo tapped the picture. “This ink is new, you know that, right? Still raised, still healing. So if this photo is recent then so is the ink.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” But it was new when he died, and she didn’t know how long ago that was. Of course, given the freshness of the corpse, it couldn’t have been too long. She had to hope it was done in New York, or that trail was a dead and cold as the poor guy whose arm bore the design.
Carlo grinned. “Investigative journalist superstar hot on another trail, huh?”
She returned his smile. “I hope so. Thanks, Carlo, I owe you one.”
“You owe me nothing, but let’s not leave it too long before we hang out, yeah? Call me for drinks soon. Carly still works here, and she asks you sometimes.” His look was sly.
Jazz laughed. “Carly is a pretty lady.”
“She sure is, so you come by again soon.”
“I will.”
“Or I’ll call you!”
Jazz laughed. “That a threat?”
Queens was a lot further out than Brooklyn, so Jazz headed to Cherry Blossom Ink first. The shop was in most respects a replica of Carlo’s place of work, but with a distinctly East Asian vibe added in, bamboo screens in place of curtains, lots of calligraphic Chinese script and watercolors on the wall hangings. Behind the counter sat a beautiful young woman with long black hair and prominent cheekbones. She smiled as Jazz entered. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself.” Jazz immediately had a variety of carnal thoughts about the woman and pushed them quickly aside. She needed to focus on business. But she also filed the thoughts away for another day. “I’m looking for Ahiko K?”
The woman’s smile was radiant. Jazz couldn’t help wondering if her initial thoughts about the tattooist were mutual. Maybe she wouldn’t be catching up with Carly any time soon after all.
“That’s me,” the woman said. “What can I do for you?”
Jazz pulled the printout from her bag again and handed it over. “Carlo at the Illustrated Dragon said I should ask you if this is your work.”
Ahiko nodded. “Sure is, I remember it. Only a couple of weeks ago. Ginger dude, a bit flaky but very nice.”
Jazz’s heart raced and she smiled. Bingo! She was glad she’d come here first instead of heading all the way out to Queens. “I know this is probably not usual procedure, but I’m really trying to track this guy down.”
Ahiko’s smile faded slightly. “Oh, really?”
“Not like that. I don’t play for that team anyway.” The heat was immediately back between them. She again didn’t want to let on that the man was dead, but she needed an angle. “I’m going to be straight up with you. I’m a journalist and I really need to talk to this guy, so if there’s any way you can help..?”
“What’s in it for me?”
Jazz smiled, looked down at the counter. There were several little plastic holders with business cards in them. She found the one for Ahiko K and took a card, held it up. “Maybe I’ll give you a call sometime soon, when I’m not working. And when you’re not working? I got a pretty good expense account we can abuse and then... who knows?”
Ahiko dipped her head, not breaking eye contact. “Interesting. Okay, I’ll tell you what. Clients all have to sign a release form, and there may be some info on that you could use, I don’t know. Folks often fudge it, of course, and we don’t chase it up, but I’ll check.”
She went to a filing cabinet and began flicking through. After a couple of minutes, she came back and dropped a hanging file on the counter, opened to a single page filled in with scrawling handwriting. “I can’t give out confidential client information, but if I happened to have left a file on the counter while I went to the bathroom, who knows who might see it.” She winked. “Don’t forget to call.” Then she stepped out of sight behind a bamboo screen.
Jazz looked at the form on the counter. Ricky Gallagher, and an address in Ridgefield. That was over in New Jersey, right on the other side of the Hudson. It would take ages to get out there, but Jazz was smiling all the same. A genuinely solid lead, an actual name. She closed the file and put one of her own business cards on top, then quietly left the shop, slipping Ahiko’s card into her pocket as she went.
The address turned out to be a decent-sized white brick, two-story house on a leafy street. A low chain link fence ran around the small garden and six steps led up to a white wooden front door under a deep, red-tiled porch. Jazz took a deep breath and trotted up the steps to knock. The door was soon answered by a well-dressed middle-aged woman, maybe somewhere in her 50s. Her skin was pale, her eyes a soft blue that was almost gray. She wore tan slacks and a pale green blouse, her feet were bare.
“Yes?” she asked nervously.
Jazz considered the age of the woman, the address, the fact that Ricky had been a young corpse. She wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed, but decided to feel her way with ignorance. “I’m looking for Ricky Gallagher?”
The woman’s face crumpled slightly, then she quickly regained her composure. “We don’t know where he is. Why are you looking for him?”
Don’t know? He’s a missing person! Jazz thought. “You’re his mother?”
“Yes.”
Jazz nodded, smiled as kindly as she could manage, thinking fast. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m a journalist and I’m working on a large feature piece about missing people in New York. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that it’s a huge problem. So I’m following up on a few specific cases to get a kind of snapshot on the sort of person that goes missing.”
“The sort of person?” Ricky’s mother’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Well, I’m starting the piece by pointing out that anyone, from any walk of life, can end up missing,” Jazz said quickly, trying to put the woman at ease. “I want to break down the clichés and stereotypes first and foremost, then try to find a way to suggest positive changes, to prevent it happening so much in the future.” Despite her subterfuge, Jazz realized her suggestion would actually make an interesting feature and she mentally logged it away for future use. She might try it out on LaGuerta once this current stuff was out of the way.
Mrs. Gallagher’s smile turned soft and sad. “Well, that’s very decent of you. Sadly, I think perhaps Ricky might only reinforce your stereotypes though, much as we’d wish things were different. He was a troubled young man. Barely graduated from high school, and struggled with addiction. He never really wanted for anything, you know, he had a good life. We’re not rich, but we have all we need. Ricky was never left wanting, but he got tangled up with people who did drugs and they took him down with them. I think it all started a bit casual and harmless, but it’s a pernicious and dangerous road. Easy for young people to get lost.”
Jazz wondered how true that was, and how much Ricky might have been left wanting despite their relative wealth, but it wasn’t her place to judge another person’s parenting. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said. “So you have no idea where he might be? You’ve followed up with all known associates, I imagine?”
Mrs. Gallagher nodded and she suddenly looked a lot older. “We did, the police did. He’s still listed as a missing person and the case is open, but we have little more left to do but wait and hope he comes home.”
Jazz knew he wouldn’t ever do that. Was it better to give this woman closure? She had no proof, except the photo of Ricky’s corpse back at work. She chewed her lower lip, wondering if maybe she should show that to his mother. She’d need to think long and hard before making a decision there, it wasn’t something to worry about right now.
Mrs. Gallagher filled the silence between them. “He was a good boy. He would vanish for months at a time, but he’d always check in eventually. We can only hope he will again. Recently he’d seemed to be doing better, and the last time we spoke he said he was going to the city for a job interview. But we didn’t hear from him again, and can only assume he’s fallen off the wagon again. He obviously didn’t get the job.”
“How long ago was that, Mrs. Gallagher?”
“We last heard from him a little over three months ago. That was when he told us about the possible job. Then nothing. The police followed it up, but the company say Ricky never showed up for the interview.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to let you know anything my investigations uncover,” Jazz said. “Say, do you happen to remember the name of the company where he was supposed to be interviewing?”
“Just a moment.” Mrs. Gallagher went back inside and Jazz waited uncomfortably on the steps, listening to birdsong and enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. Ricky would never hear birdsong or feel the sun again.
“Here you are.” Mrs. Gallagher handed Jazz a scrap of paper. It said Mr. James Burton, SaleMed.
Chapter 17
Crowley and Rose enjoyed a late breakfast in the hotel, Crowley’s head muggy from lack of sleep after spending most of the night out on his fruitless mission. The two hours of sleep he’d managed on his return somehow made him feel worse instead of better. He told Rose all about it and enjoyed reliving the adventure. “But regardless, the whole thing was a bust,” he finished. “I’m sorry, but I think we’ve hit a dead end here.”
Rose stared into her coffee cup as if answers might be divined from it. Maybe if it was tea and she could read the leaves, Crowley mused. “There must be more we can do,” she said eventually. “This is too interesting, don’t you think?”
<
br /> “It is intriguing, I’ll give you that. Is this how we unwind now? We’re not the rest and vacation kind, are we.”
Rose grinned at him. “No, I guess we’re not. I need to do more research.”
“Do you think we’re clutching at straws?”
“Maybe we are,” she said. “But think about it! A whole crypt of corpses, some of them really fresh. Secret experiments and crazed doctors doing witchcraft or trying to be the new Frankenstein or something. Underground dungeon labs! Even if it’s all nonsense, it’s better than a lame guided ghost tour, isn’t it? I’m enjoying the search. It’s what I do, after all.”
Crowley laughed. “But aren’t we supposed to be taking a break from what we do?”
“No, Jake! We’re taking a break from weird artifacts and my psychopathic sister trying to kill us. Getting back into hard research and historical weirdness is my comfort zone.”
He had to credit her with that. She made a good point. “Well. I want to go and catch up with Matthew Price again, so maybe I’ll do that while you research more.”
Rose scowled. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“I know you don’t like him. I’m still not really sure why, but I think he’s an interesting guy. And besides that, he’s entangled himself in my aunt’s life, which means he’s in my life now too. I need to get to know him.”
Rose sighed, swallowed the rest of her coffee. “I suppose so.” She caught his eye then looked quickly away.
“What?” Crowley asked.
“I had Jazz look into him,” Rose said, not meeting his eye again.
