Antenna Syndrome (21 page)

As I returned to my bike, I scanned the garage for
cameras. I saw one above the elevator door, another near the exit
ramp. There may have been more but I took a chance.

I’d parked my bike behind a pillar on which was
mounted a fire extinguisher. I put on my helmet and stepped up onto
the bike seat. Screened from the camera behind the pillar, I
climbed onto the fire extinguisher.

I used my latex glove to pull the Bobcat out of my
pocket, and stashed it out of sight atop an overhead beam.

Five minutes later I was on Fifth Avenue. I stopped
at a trash can, used my lighter to melt the latex glove, and
dropped the residue in the garbage. As I continued down Fifth, I
used the little pieces of the puzzle I’d gathered tonight to
assemble the bigger picture.

With Vivien out of the house to make the ransom
payment, Jack had visited Tatiana to establish an alibi. After the
ransom drop, his associates had gone to Jordan’s house, disabled
the security system, and stolen Marielle’s paintings. What had
Vivien said they were worth? Millions? Even after splitting with
the Russians, Jack would be flush again.

But first they had to dispose of the paintings. Even
if Schiller refused to handle stolen art, he might still have
introduced Jack to somebody who would. Times were hard, and money
had no morals. It had been prescient of me to have Walker tail
Randall. If Jack were smart, he’d have lined up a buyer before the
theft, so as to get rid of the paintings as quickly as possible. It
could be happening tonight.

I’d just turned onto Terrace Drive, cutting through
Central Park on the way back to Clinton Hill, when I received an
incoming call. I couldn’t hear anything on the motorcycle so I
killed the engine and coasted onto the shoulder. It was Walker.

“Thought I’d better bring you up to date,” he
said.

“Where are you?”

“Pier 57.”

“What’s up?”

“I staked out the house in East Massapequa until
Jack left. He drove into the city and rendezvoused with two vans –
one white, one dark blue – at Canal and Sixth. I tailed them up to
Jackson Square and they circled it a couple of times. I had to pull
over and sit tight, in case they were checking for a tail. Then a
white Caddie showed up, and they all headed out 13th Street to the
river.”

“What’s at Pier 57?”

“A couple of small warehouses with loading
docks.”

“What’s happening?”

“They’re all just parked here. Jack got into the
Caddie a few minutes ago. The driver of the white van went to sit
with the driver in the blue. They’re all just sitting there waiting
for something.”

“Did you get their plates?”

“No. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s foggy
downtown tonight.”

“Can you get a little closer?”

“If I leave my car I’d be out in the open. What if
they spot me?”

“Maybe you’re just out for a walk.”

“After dark? Are you nuts? There are neo-Nazi punks
in this ‘hood. They’ll beat the shit out of anyone they run
across.”

“Don’t you have a gun?”

Walker groaned. “All right, I’ll go get the fucking
tags.”

“Be careful, though.”

“Duh.”

Walker signed off. I started my bike and raced
across the park, emerging on 72nd West. Running a few red lights on
West End and Eleventh, I was at Pier 57 in less than 10
minutes.

I idled along the greenway, looking for Walker’s
car. I saw no vehicles parked at the two warehouses on Eleventh. I
called Walker but got no answer. Maybe everyone had departed and he
was following them. But why wasn’t he picking up his phone?

I spotted his black Camaro parked in the shadow of a
utility building on the east side of Eleventh. I made an illegal
turn and shot across the avenue on a pedestrian crosswalk. I pulled
up alongside the Camaro. It was unoccupied, the doors locked.

I secured my bike to the wrought iron fence at the
tiny 14th Street Park. I crossed the avenue and the greenway to
Pier 57. I regretted not having asked Walker at which of the two
warehouses Jack had made his rendezvous.

I tried calling him again. Above the noise of
traffic, I heard a tinny guitar riff coming from the warehouses. I
followed the sound until I saw a body lying in the shadows beneath
a loading dock. I terminated the call.

I took out my pistol and went forward in a crouch. I
recognized Walker by his brown corduroy shirt and the muscular arms
that lay sprawled at his side. I squatted a few feet from his body,
stifling my gag reflex. His arms were deeply slashed with defensive
wounds. His right hand was missing three fingers. I saw his gun
lying a dozen feet away but chose not to touch it.

His head was nearly severed from his neck, and had
tilted crazily backwards, leaving a yawning crescent of open gore
just above his collarbone. There was a lot of blood and I really
didn’t want to get any closer to him for fear of getting some on
me.

Reluctantly, however, I rolled Walker onto his side
and pulled out his wallet. I took back my business card and money
I’d given him. I didn’t bother with his car keys. I doubted there
was anything there that could help me, and I didn’t want to leave
any fingerprints on his car.

I quickly checked the two warehouses. There were
three loading docks for each, but all were secured with massive
locks equipped with transponders that would squeal to the police as
soon as anyone started tampering with them.

I returned to my bike and left the neighborhood. No
phone calls to the cops this time, even though Walker had been
working on my tab. I’d learned my lesson at Myers’s place. If Mundt
and Boyle found me at this scene, they’d really put me through the
wringer. I felt sick to my guts about it, having coerced Walker
into taking a closer look at the vehicles. But there was no point
in crying over spilled blood.

Chapter 37

I retraced Walker’s route. Jackson Square was
twitchy with the usual night life – homeless and sleepless, hookers
and dealers, cops in cruisers keeping an eye on it all. I lapped
the square half a dozen times, keeping an eye out for a white
Cadillac, but saw no sign of it.

I cruised down Greenwich and Sixth to Canal where
Jack had rendezvoused with the two vans. I went around Capsouto
Park a few times. It was near the Holland Tunnel entrance, close to
Little Italy, Chinatown and Tribeca.

I racked my brain, wondering which way to turn. More
than 48 hours on this case, I had nothing to show for it but a
growing sense of frustration and failure. And dead bodies…

I needed to touch base with my client. Maybe there
was more to this case than she’d told me. I dialed the number
Natalie Jordan had given me. The phone rang for a long time. Out on
the West Coast it’d be going on nine, after dinner but well before
bedtime. Just when I thought I’d have to leave a voice-mail, she
came on the line.

“This is Natalie.”

“Keith Savage in New York.”

“Have you found Marielle?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m in a meeting and I can’t talk right now. I’m
flying back East late tonight.”

“Can you call me later?”

“Sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow morning to set up a
meeting. You can give me a progress report then.” She hung up.

I shook my head. Progress report? I’d barely
identified the key players in this case. Maybe I’d show her an
astrology book with a cutaway hole for a poisonous spider. Or a
video clip of giant hornets on Ronkonkoma Lake. Or the still-warm
gun I’d taken from Tatiana. Maybe she could help me sort out this
jigsaw puzzle.

I circled the square a few more times. It was a
symbolic admission of failure. I was literally going in circles. I
was tired and getting nowhere but I didn’t want to go home.

Suddenly I realized where I was. When I was a
teenager, Capsouto Park used to be called CaVaLa Park, where Canal,
Varick and Laight intersected. I was just blocks away from the
Avatar Clinic on Laight!

I rode west, returning to the block I’d visited
yesterday. On the corner of Laight and Collister was the red-brick
three-story Avatar Clinic. Three large doors faced the street. Two
had been retained as vehicle access, the third converted to a main
entrance. I rode my motorcycle onto the curb for a closer look.

Beside the entrance was a plaque that read
Avatar
Clinic
. By appointment only, with a phone
number. Below the plaque was an intercom box. I used my goggles to
capture the phone number, just in case it was different from what
I’d found online.

I heard a faint whirring noise and looked above the
entrance. A camera pointed at me. A light came on, flooding the
sidewalk with halogen brilliance.

I gunned my bike. Rather than continue on Laight and
risk the camera tracking my plates, I cut left and went the wrong
way down one-way Collister. The building spanned the block to
Hubert Street, where I saw another garage door. I did a fast
drive-by and continued on my way.

On Hudson I pulled over onto a vacant swath of land
adjacent the Holland Tunnel traffic circle. I killed the engine and
reviewed what I knew about the Avatar Clinic.

According to LeVeen, Crabner had been treated at the
Avatar Clinic, where Dr. Globik was the resident surgeon. Marielle
had asked Myers about the clinic for her own use. She’d tried
mailing something to Crabner via its address. Walker had seen Jack
rendezvous with the two vans just blocks from here. Was the dark
blue van the same I’d seen at Luna Deli last night when Globik’s
bodyguard picked up sandwiches? Was the white van the same that
disappeared with Marielle on Saturday, and removed her paintings
today?

The building housing the Avatar Clinic covered half
a block. It was big enough to house a clinic, a laboratory, even a
small factory, maybe residential space on the upper floors. Was
Marielle holed up there with Crabner? Kidnapped or not? Guarded by
Buzz, the bodyguard I’d seen at the EDGAR demonstration?

I went back for another look at the Avatar Clinic.
All of its windows were covered with heavy blinds.

I went the wrong way down Collister again, figuring
there was little chance I’d meet opposing traffic this late at
night. Collister was narrow, with a cobbled street and marginal
sidewalks, giving the impression of having stepped back in time.
With the bike I mounted the sidewalk opposite the clinic and idled
there, scanning the wall across the street.

The windows here all had heavy blinds too. But in
one of the second floor windows, the vertical blinds had not been
fully closed.

I killed the engine, set the foot stand and stood
atop the saddle. From that height I saw, through the parted blinds,
someone in a white lab coat pass a wall of refrigeration units. I
glanced around to see if there was a fire escape ladder, a
drainpipe or even a well-secured video cable to climb higher for a
better look.

A vehicle appeared at the end of the block. It was
the size of a truck, with articulated panels on either side like a
snowplow. It came my way on large rubber tires, its side panels
spanning the street, a light blinking from a console atop its
chassis.

A sharp yowl pierced the silence. Two cats shot from
a doorway niche and ran toward me. Something hissed and a tongue of
rubber skittered across the cobblestones, coiled both cats in its
grip and yanked them back through a gaping hatch at the front of
the vehicle.

EDGAR.

I dropped onto the seat and started the motorcycle.
I’d barely got it turned when something hit me from behind. I went
head over handlebars as the bike was yanked out from under me. My
helmet broke my fall and I was on my feet after a stunned moment.
EDGAR’s articulated arms shoveled my motorcycle into its maw,
shredder fully engaged. The bike gave off a metallic scream as
EDGAR dismembered it.

I was pissed off. EDGAR wasn’t supposed to eat
bikes. People leave them chained to posts all the time. This was a
rogue machine!

I ran toward Laight, fleeing EDGAR’s Velcro-rubber
collector tongue. Fifty feet ahead, another EDGAR arrived to block
the intersection. This one seemed to have more of an appetite,
because it came at me with frightening speed. I was trapped between
the two of them.

What the fuck? They weren’t supposed to kill people.
Had they been programmed to guard the Avatar Clinic, or just kill
me?

I grabbed a trash can from an alcove and hurled it
at the second EDGAR. Its tongue shot out, snatched the skittering
trash can and yanked it into its maw.

Without breaking stride, I followed hard on the
heels of the trash can while the tongue was still occupied. In high
school track and field, I’d competed in hurdles, but I’d never
faced this kind of pressure before. I didn’t quite clear the height
of the collector panel, and banged my hip pretty hard as I went
over. But I landed on all fours, got to my feet and ran, ignoring
the pain.

It took EDGAR a minute to realize what had happened.
By the time it had reversed back onto Laight, I was long gone. On
West Street I flagged a taxi, flung myself into it and told the
cabbie to put the pedal to the metal.

I pulled out my PV and inserted a fresh cartridge of
KavaKat. I sucked it all the way up West Street, trying to bring my
heart back from the edge of cardiac arrest.

Chapter 38

I was in a foul mood all the way to Clinton Hill.
Since it was increasingly dangerous on the streets at night, cab
companies had all raised their fares between midnight and six
AM.

After the loss of my bike, it just added insult to
injury. Although the BMW was insured for more than it’d cost, would
the insurance company pay out? Did I even want to file a claim? To
do so would pit me against Voromix Industries, and if I went to
court, they had more lawyers than I did. Who’d believe me
anyway?