Book of Shadows (11 page)

He said, “Two days after your friend Larry Oregon gets dragged to death by a horse in Central Park. Why didn’t you report the break-in?”

“I was told I’d be wasting my time.”

“By who?”

“The locksmith.
And
the building super. Both say break-ins are common and no one’s every caught. Attempted break-ins, I’m told, interest the police not at all.”

“So why are you here?”

Marisa reached in her bag for her cigarettes. “Because, sergeant, I’m scared. Because in the short time I knew you, when you served as technical adviser on
World and Forever,
you managed to communicate some small degree of sensitivity as well as intelligence. You didn’t bowl anyone over with your warmth and charm, but I had the feeling that underneath it all you were sometimes alive and breathing.”

Joseph Bess tossed a pencil onto his battered desk and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Working on your show wasn’t my idea, Miss Heggen. Frankly, I’d just as soon have avoided the honor. I’m a cop, not one of the beautiful people. To me, show business is some kind of freaky playpen, light years removed from the real world. I’d have been happier pulling night duty on any Harlem street.”

“You never did mince words.”

“The order came down to help you people and I had no choice.”

“Whatever happened to the idea of public service?”

The plainclothes cop held her gaze. “It’s still going on, Miss Heggen. So far this year six cops have been killed and the year’s not over yet. If you want more service, stick around. Some clown’s sure to get it in his head that whacking out a cop is more fun than ice skating.”

Marisa looked down at the floor.

Joseph Bess leaned forward. “Sorry.”

She looked up. “What’s bugging you?”

He sighed. “There are days when I can’t take the weight and I guess this is one of them. I caught a case a few weeks ago and maybe I’m taking it personally. Unfortunately it’s the only way I can handle this one.”

Marisa waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Joseph Bess—he insisted on the full first name—was a private man, a small, thirty-four-year-old second-generation American of Armenian ancestry, with sad brown eyes and no interest in being polite unless absolutely necessary. Under the toughness he’d acquired to survive as a cop, Marisa saw something else: a vulnerable, lonely man. In the few weeks he’d served as the show’s technical adviser, she’d found herself attracted to him and sensed he felt the same way about her.

Neither of them did a thing about it. She wondered if that’s why he now seemed annoyed with her.

This was their first meeting since Bess had finished his stint on
World and Forever.
The day after someone had tried to pick the lock to her apartment, Marisa, shaken by Larry’s death, had telephoned the sad-eyed police detective. A thin piece of metal had broken off in the lock, jamming it. Marisa had recalled the deaths of Nat Shields and Larry, and Nat’s feeling that his home had been broken into and that he was being followed. Marisa felt that she too was being followed.

A deliberate and terrifying pattern of events was developing around her and she needed help.

And there was Robert and the changes in him since he’d gotten the
Book of Shadows.
But Marisa wasn’t ready to discuss that with Joseph Bess or anyone else. Not yet.

Because she herself didn’t want to believe the thoughts creeping into her mind about Robert and that book.

She looked at the unlit cigarette in her fingers. “I thought I had kicked the habit. Actually I had. Eight months without one until this business with my front lock.”

“Throw it away.”

She looked at Bess. On the other side of the closed door, telephones rang and men laughed. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

She kept her eyes on his face as she dropped the cigarette in the ashtray.

“The pack,” he said.

She did as he ordered. Obeying him gave her the first moment’s peace she’d had in two days.

She told herself that it was gratitude she suddenly felt toward him and nothing else, but she looked away, first at the ceiling of the tiny office with its peeling paint, then at the few pieces of battered furniture around her and the one window, its cracked, filthy panes covered by thick wire mesh.

Joseph Bess pulled open a desk drawer, removed a folder and dropped it on the stained green blotter. “Goddam weed’s no good for you. My father and uncle survived the Turks, the Greeks, and they make it all the way to America to die from lung cancer.”

He drummed on the folder with fingers whose nails were bitten down to the quick. “Yesterday after you hung up, I made a few calls.”

“I was wondering whether or not I’d been coherent.”

“You were. Let’s say I somehow managed to understand you.”

They’d been on the phone forty-five minutes. Marisa didn’t realize she’d talked that long until she had hung up. She and Joseph Bess hadn’t seen each other in over four months, but sitting across from him now made her feel as if they’d only been apart for days.

He opened the folder. “Let’s start with Larry Oregon, born Laurence Jerrold Ornstein, male Caucasian, age twenty-three. Unmarried. Survivors: parents, one older sister. Cause of death: dragged by runaway horse in Central Park.”

Bess looked at Marisa. “Traces of angel dust were found in his system. That’s the roughest drug on the street at the moment. Gives the user a feeling of superiority. Some kids take it to get up the courage to kill somebody.”

“Larry was vain about his body and his looks,” said Marisa. “He didn’t smoke, drink, or even touch aspirin, let alone anything else.”

Bess tapped the page lying in the open folder. “I’m reading what’s on the paper. There was also evidence of recent homosexual intercourse.”

Marisa closed her eyes.

Joseph Bess said, “It looks as if there was some kind of sex and drug scene in the park and it just got out of hand. We found Oregon’s clothing in the Ramble, also his ID and wallet. No cash, naturally. Appears like he had a little party and after it was over somebody dared him to go riding bareback and he took the dare. If he was stoned, then …”

Bess shrugged.

“Doesn’t sound like Larry,” said Marisa. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t.”

“Miss Heggen, it’s almost summer, and in summer a lot of weird things go down in Central Park. You got gays, you got muggers, and you got something else, which few people know about. This city’s flooded with illegal aliens. Most of them come from Mexico, the Caribbean, South America. These people bring their customs with them, especially their religious rites, which include some freaky things involving the occult.”

Bess shook his head. “They turn the park into something really off the wall. I mean, it’s one huge outdoor altar. Every morning we find chickens with their heads sliced off, dead birds, goats with their throats slit. People are doing some strange things in the park. Nothing surprises me anymore. Nothing.”

“Larry didn’t kill himself,” said Marisa. “Not accidentally, not deliberately. And before you tell me I’m a hysterical woman who’s walking across the ceiling because some junkie tried to force his way into her apartment, let me tell you something. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard of a man dying the way Larry did. Last year when I went to England on vacation, I heard the same story. It was told to me by a man named Jack Lyle, who said it took place hundreds of years ago when the British army put down some sort of uprising in the north.

“Lyle said it was a true story. It was a punishment given to a young rebel boy, the fastest runner in his village. The boy was told his life would be spared if he could outrun the general’s horse. The boy agreed to try. The soldiers tied him to the horse and it dragged the boy to death. The soldiers cheered and laughed.”

Bess said, “What’s the point?”

“The point, sergeant, is that a piece of English history suddenly turns up in New York one year after five of us go to England. The point is that a friend of mine, Nat Shields, is burned to death just as Jack Lyle predicted. The point is I’d like you to do something.”

“What?”

Marisa closed her eyes. “Where are my cigarettes?”

There was a knock at the door.

Bess said, “Come.”

The door opened and a heavy-set long-faced man stuck his head into the room. “Princess Grace. On two.”

The big man looked at Marisa, then at Joseph Bess, and winked.

Bess ignored him and reached for the phone. “Bess.”

He listened without expression, then said, “You sure?”

Finally he said, “If you’re righteous, Princess, I’ll take care of you. Keep in touch.”

He hung up.

The big man was still in the doorway leering at Marisa. Bess said, “Thanks, Whopper. Don’t slam the door on your way out.”

When they were alone again, Marisa said, “Princess Grace?”

The sad-faced little cop cracked his first smile of their meeting. “She’s a transvestite. One of the best informants I’ve got. Just told me something about somebody involved in this case I’m working. It’s costing me twenty bucks but it could be worth it if she’s right.”

“What kind of case is it?”

Joseph Bess unwrapped a stick of gum. “Better for you than smoking.”

He chewed for a few seconds, then said, “Child prostitution. I’m trying to locate a little blonde girl known as Fancy. She’s the prettiest and hottest thing in kiddie porn at the moment. Her films, books, photographs sell for more money than any of the others’ and somebody’s getting rich. You might say Fancy’s a superstar. She doesn’t see a penny, and some of the things she’s made to do would tear your heart out. Fancy’s ten years old. She’s been doing porn since she was three.”

Marisa gasped.

“I want the man behind Fancy, the man who started her in porn, the man who owns her, rents her out, poses with her in films and books, the son of a bitch who’s getting rich off her, the one who’s crucifying her every day she breathes.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Yes. Her father.”

Marisa looked away.

“Princess Grace says Fancy and her father are due in New York either tomorrow or the day after. They divide their time between Los Angeles and New York mostly, though they hit a few other cities as well. Raymond—that’s her father—rents her out to guys who can afford to pay as much as two thousand or more a night. Sometimes it’s two or three men who pay, then make their own home movies with themselves and Fancy. Raymond collects and then moves on.”

Marisa said, “That child doesn’t have a chance in the world of growing up normal. She’s scarred for life. When you catch Raymond, why don’t you just save the taxpayers some money and shoot his balls off?”

Bess smiled. “That’s what I like about you civilians. You’re all over us for police brutality until you come across something that offends your particular moral code, then you want us to string the perpetrator up by the lips. I’m on Raymond, don’t worry. I’ve got my own reasons for getting him. If he gives me an excuse to blow him away, I’ll thank him for it. But according to the rules, the man deserves his day in court.”

“Like hell he does.”

The detective toyed with a half smile. “Still seeing the writer?”

She nodded once.

“How’s he doing?” said Bess.

“Very well. His book’s been sold to the movies and he’s writing the script. His agent’s working on a three-book deal for him. It’s big bucks for Robert these days.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

“That’s the fun of being a cop. You get paid for being nosy. He was having a hard time there for a while.”

Until he found the
Book of Shadows,
thought Marisa.

She said, “Win some, lose some. At the moment Robert’s living life in the fast lane. God knows where he’ll end up.”

Joseph Bess listened to the ringing phones on the other side of the door. Then he said casually, too casually, “I spoke to Sergeant Laura this morning.”

Marisa jerked upright in her chair.

Bess said, “I see you’ve heard the name. Sergeant Laura had contacted the Newark police department, who in turn notified the New York, Connecticut, Delaware, and Washington police departments. I read it on today’s green sheet.”

Marisa’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Never could get the difference between a green sheet and a yellow sheet.”

“Yellow sheet is a criminal’s record. Green sheet lists all crimes committed during the past twenty-four hours.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“A farmer who lives near Laura claims his dogs turned up a human hand. From what they could learn, the hand had been buried at the base of a tree on Nat Shields’ property. His land was next to the farmer’s land and the farmer’s dogs ran—You feeling okay?”

“Stuffy in here. I … I …”

Bess stood up and turned. “Damn window sticks, but if you try hard enough you can—yeah, that’s it.”

He opened the window, rubbed his hands together and turned to see Marisa gripping the arms of the chair, a vacant state on her suddenly pale face.

She said softly, “Was it an oak tree?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The hand. Was it buried near an oak tree?”

“Laura didn’t say. Why?”

“Jack Lyle said it belonged to the ritual. Skulls, hands. You use them to frighten your enemies, to protect a sacred place. When they killed Nat, they left the hand near the oak. They worship the oak, they’ve always worshiped it.”

Bess frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nat Shields was murdered by them. And so was Larry.”

Tears slid down her face. “They’ll kill us. Robert, Ellie, me. They’ll kill us all. Lyle said they would.”

Bess was at her side, an arm around her shoulders. “Slow down. Take it easy. Who’s going to kill you?”

She willed herself not to scream. “The Druids.”

Joseph Bess didn’t say he didn’t believe her. His arm slipped away and he stood up, walked to his desk and sat down on the edge. “Listen, that hand the farmer turned over to Laura didn’t belong to your friend Nathan Shields. You hear what I’m saying? It had nothing to do with Nathan Shields.”

Bess pulled the folder toward him and looked at the page inside. “I said I’d make a few calls. We had no problem matching the hand with a body. It belonged to Ivan Baez, nineteen, Hispanic, resident Manhattan. His first name and his girlfriend’s first name were tattooed on the back of the hand. Now Ivan was bad news from the word go. He was a burn artist, him and his brother and his cousin. They sold people bad dope and in some cases they promised dope and didn’t deliver. They also robbed a few small-time dope dealers and the word is they sometimes did contract killings. There’s a whole lot of other charges here on Ivan and his friends, so what happened to him is what happens to a lot of people on the street who make too many enemies.”