Desperate Souls (18 page)

“I need to see you right away.”

Jake considered his situation. “Okay. Can you meet me at the office in half an hour?”

“Sure.”

“Come alone.”

Edgar waited too long before answering. “All right.”

Official business,
Jake thought. “I’ll see you then.”

Buttoning his shirt, Jake stepped into Laurel’s parlor. She sat in a chair with a high back, one shapely leg crossed over the other.

“I have to go,” he said. “But I’ll be back.” She offered him a slight smile. “I know you will.”

Gary sat on a park bench, his back to the East River and Manhattan’s FDR Drive, the mini-binoculars in his right hand trained on the top floor of The Octagon, Roosevelt Island’s most luxurious apartment complex. Kids swam in The Octagon’s swimming pool, and the sun turned burnt orange, readying its descent behind the building. Bicyclists, pedestrians, and dog walkers glided across the walkways close to the river.

The former New York Lunatic Asylum had been renovated for the Starbucks crowd: five hundred units in two modern wings flanked the eight-sided rotunda. According to the property’s Web site, the building offered studio, one-, two-, and three-bedroom apartments to those who could afford them, and it housed more solar panels than any building in Manhattan. Gary could never afford to live in such luxury on a cop’s salary, even with his extracurricular activities, which he regarded as simple moonlighting.

But a drug-dealing scumbag like Malachai has no problem paying the tab,
he thought with bitterness. It was going to be a pleasure to take the shit bag out.

Frank’s voice came over the receiver in his ear: “Anything happening?”

“Looks like our boy’s getting some powerful head,” he said into the transmitter in his jacket collar.

Malachi stood naked not far from the floor-to-ceiling windows in his fourteenth-floor apartment, baring his muscular frame for all the world to see, at least those possessing high-powered binoculars, while a woman kneeled on the floor with her back to the window, her head bobbing up and down on her lord and master.

“Maybe she can do me after I do
him,”
Frank said.

“Stand by.” It was the only way he could think of to shut his partner up.

Roosevelt Island, “the Big Apple’s Little Apple,” was too contained for his taste, too unreal, like a toy version of Manhattan. He found it unnatural that the island ran beneath the Queensboro Bridge. Who the hell could live underneath a bridge? Once prison grounds known as Blackwell’s Island, Roosevelt Island claimed thirteen thousand people as residents.

After GQ had given up Malachai’s location and dinner plans for the evening, Gary and Frank had stolen license plates off a parked Subaru and then affixed them to an SUV they signed out of the NYPD motor pool. They had driven to Astoria, then taken the Roosevelt Island Bridge to a parking lot across the street from The Octagon, and Gary had taken watch from the park bench while Frank had infiltrated The Octagon’s underground parking facility.

“Look alive,” Gary said as Malachai arched his back and faced the ceiling. “Mount Vesuvius just blew. I’m heading back to our wheels.”

“Copy that.”

Returning his binoculars to his jacket pocket, Gary stood and crossed the park. He wore a Yankees cap with the visor pulled low, so no one would be likely to remember his features. He circled the building to Main Street, where he waited for a bus to clear his path before he jogged over to the parking lot. Climbing into the SUV, he fastened his seat belt, started the engine, and waited for all hell to break loose.

Prince Malachai felt good even before Katrina went down on him. Business was way up, and money was rolling in. He had only to look around his crib to know that he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. And it had taken only one year, thanks to Katrina.

Daryl Havek had grown up in the South Bronx. He had been a smart kid, passing his classes with ease, but had been lazy when it came to schoolwork. He had graduated but just barely. And then his mother had sent him off to work for his uncle, Papa Joe, who had a lock on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

Joe had four daughters, at least that he admitted to, by three different women, and he had taken Daryl under his wing and mentored him like the son he never had.
Uncle
Joe started him out on a corner, then put him in charge of another corner, then trusted him with making runs across the state, delivering large quantities of cocaine, crack, and heroin.

Within three years, Daryl had become one of the drug lord’s most trusted lieutenants. Then he was busted for possession with the intent to sell. The judge sentenced him to four years, but he had walked after only thirteen months. A year had been long enough to harden him. He returned to Joe expecting big things, but Joe wanted him to take things slowly “to readjust to freedom,” he had said. Daryl saw things differently: he wanted to be Joe’s right-hand man, and he discovered that Chess, one of Joe’s former top earners, had stepped into that role.

Bitter, Daryl had started to skim the money he earned for his uncle— a little at first, then a lot. He renamed himself Prince Malachai as a sign of disrespect to the king. When Joe figured things out, he cut Daryl out of the operation. But he hadn’t killed him because they shared some of the same blood.

Because he’s soft,
Malachai thought.

Joe had spared his nephew’s life on the condition that Daryl stay out of the business, at least in New York City. Malachai gave his word, never intending to keep it. He lay low for a few months, staying in touch with the men who had been in his crew, while recruiting new blood and staying in touch with contacts he’d made in prison.

And then he met Katrina. She was dancing up a storm in a nightclub downtown, staring at him with wide eyes, shaking her hips in a manner he had never seen before—some kind of witch dance. Malachai had grown up around believers in voodoo and Santaria, but he had always scoffed at their faiths and rituals. He did not believe in the power of the Houngan priests or Mamba priestesses. Superstition dominated their version of Catholicism, and his mother had been a Baptist anyway.

But Katrina had beguiled him, luring him into her arms and her bed, and she had dominated
him.
Her body writhed like a snake, and he drank the hot blood from between her legs. They had sex all night long, and she had instinctively served his fantasies. Exhausted and panting, his chest covered with sweat and his cock covered with her menstrual blood, he had listened as she whispered into his ear schemes that filled him with inspiration.

He left her, promising to return but believing that he would not keep his word. Instead, he returned the very next night. If anything, her body had been even more demanding, her proposals even more enticing. And as she laid out her plans for him, he hung on her every word. She promised to transform the prince into a king and deliver Papa Joe’s kingdom to him. The sexual excitement he felt for her gave way to stunned admiration when she showed him just what powers she possessed as the heads of various drug gangs met violent and bloody ends.

Standing nude at the floor-to-ceiling window, Malachai gazed out across the East River at Manhattan. He enjoyed the high-rise apartment on Roosevelt Island. He didn’t give a shit about its “green” functions, only that it offered a life of spacious luxury. When he boarded the elevator and wealthy white neighbors viewed him with curiosity, he felt important. Powerful. But he always remained polite. No gangsta shit here. Every day he proved that these executives were no better than him, and he knew he made more money than any of them.

A reflection appeared in the window.

Katrina,
he thought. Also nude. Turning, he saw her approach him. Creamy brown skin. Full breasts. Slim waist. Straightened hair. His cock stood at attention.

A smile played over her features as her gaze darted to his penis, then back at his eyes. As she stepped before him, she closed the fingers of her left hand around his shaft, and he felt her gold rings dimple his sensitive flesh.

With an appreciative smile, he set his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down to her knees.

“We’ll be late for dinner,” she said.

“We have time.”

Returning his smile, she took him into her mouth.

Malachai sucked in his breath. He didn’t like showing Katrina how good she made him feel, but the woman had a magic tongue. As she ran it over the head of his cock, she massaged his balls with one hand and stroked his shaft with the other.

Jesus,
he thought as she brought him to the point of climax, then switched techniques, drawing out his pleasure to nearly unbearable extremes. The woman knew how to satisfy him. Sinking his fingers into her hair and thrusting himself deep into her mouth, he signaled his desire to come. She brought him to the threshold again, and this time she increased the speed of everything she did all at once, and his throbbing member ejaculated. Still she worked on him, draining him of his strength. He groaned as if he had been struck, a loud and cathartic sound that filled the white-walled apartment.
Shit, yeah!

Katrina folded her legs beneath her and wiped his semen from her lips. Then she giggled, a teasing sound that made him want to fuck her.

The telephone built into the living room wall rang.

“That’s Marcus,” she said. “We can continue this later.”

“Yeah,” he said.
Thank God.
He knew he’d need to eat a full meal to summon the strength to take her on in bed tonight.

Marcus Jones stepped off The Octagon’s elevator and strutted down the wide, sunlit corridor to Malachai’s apartment. He didn’t like the way the building made him feel out of place, but he understood that Roosevelt Island provided Malachai with a level of comfort and safety not available in Manhattan or the other boroughs of New York City. Katrina had chosen it well.

Katrina.
He tried to keep an open mind about her, but her presence unsettled him. How could it not? The bitch was responsible for bringing Black Magic to New York City—
his
city—and for creating the zombies that pushed it.

Zombies.

The word summoned his fear. The creatures he had grown up watching in movies and video games. But these were not flesh-eating monsters created by some unknown force. They were pitiful, mindless slaves, almost like machines, created through some combination of witchcraft and voodoo, which Marcus only pretended to understand. Only Malachai avoided the damned things, a benefit of being the boss. Marcus had to deal with them on occasion, but he had delegated as much of that responsibility to GQ and others whenever possible. The undead creatures made for an obedient workforce, but they creeped him out to no end. He knew that Katrina was the real power behind them, that without her they would remain inanimate corpses. He also knew that she was the real power behind Malachai.

Marcus had been Malachai’s chief lieutenant in Papa Joe’s organization. He had observed the political machinations that took place while Malachai served his time in prison, and he had counseled his friend upon his release. He watched Malachai skim the profits from Joe’s organization, socking away the cash for a rainy day, and when Joe drove Malachai from the business, Marcus was shocked that his friend was permitted to live. There was no question that the younger man would pursue his uncle’s empire, and when Malachai asked him to join his fledgling gang, Marcus rolled the dice and took a chance.