Ghosts of Manhattan (14 page)

After a few moments' pacing between rooms, he found what he'd been looking for. The bathroom was like a scene from an abattoir. The glistening white tiles had been decorated with a spray of dark arterial blood that covered nearly every surface: the walls, floor, ceiling-even spattered over the mirror above the sink. The bathtub itself was cracked and splintered where it had received a series of blows from a sharp implement, suggesting the doctor's head had been hacked off over the side of the tub. Supporting that theory, the Ghost could see two tools had been dumped in the bottom of the tub, a bloody machete and a hacksaw. They rested in a long puddle of sticky gore. It seemed much of the gritty substance had been swilled down the plughole.

Bloodstained towels had been discarded haphazardly on the floor, and puddles of water marked where the body had been washed down after the event.

The Ghost felt bile rising in his gullet. He wondered what the doctor had done to warrant such a vicious, deliberate reprisal from the Roman. Turning away from the scene of the butchery, he made his way back to the living room, where the body of the late doctor was still waiting for him in silent vigil. Grimacing, he crossed to the blue and white rug and stooped to examine the body. He'd heard, from news of the other murders committed by the Roman's men, that the coins were a calling card, both an admission of guilt and a terrible warning to those who might consider opposing the mob boss. Or else they were some kind of ritualistic symbol, placed over the eyes to appease the gatekeeper that blocked the way to the afterlife; compensation, of a sort, that would enable the souls of the Roman's victims to buy passage into the spirit realm. The Ghost had heard talk that the coins were originals, too, real Roman currency, nearly two millennia old. But the coins in front of him didn't look like originals. They were far too pristine. All the Roman coins he'd seen displayed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art had darkened and oxidized over time, or else had been damaged by the years they had spent in the soil, turned over by plows, struck by spades. These, though, looked as if they had hardly been touched, as if they had only recently been minted. He reached out and gingerly prized one of them free, turning it over in his gloved fingers. It had to be a replica. If not-if they were real-they must have cost the Roman a fortune. He knew where he could find out. He'd ask Arthur. Arthur would know.

There was a shout from out in the hall, followed by the patter of footsteps coming into the apartment. The Ghost stiffened. He drew back from the corpse, just in time to see a man burst into the room.

The Ghost could tell immediately that the newcomer was a police officer. He had that look about him: haunted, exhausted, but like a dog on the trail of a fox, full of adrenaline and spoiling for a fight. The man was dressed in an immaculate black suit, with a crisp white collar and a black overcoat. He was wearing a porkpie hat, and had an automatic clasped in one hand, which he was pointing in the Ghost's direction. He looked as if he were trying to suppress the shock he was feeling at the sight of Dr. Sinclair's naked, desecrated corpse.

"Hold it!" The man barked the command. The Ghost backed away, holding his hands out so the detective could see that he wasn't about to try anything. He wouldn't fire on a policeman, not even in selfdefense. But neither could he allow himself to be captured. Given the circumstances, they'd probably link him to Sinclair's death and hit him with a murder charge, and if not for Sinclair, then for the goons in the bank. Either way, he needed to get away, and fast.

He glanced around the room. The detective was blocking the only exit. There was a window in the south wall, looking out onto the street below. The curtains were pulled back, but the window was shut. He wouldn't have time to open it. He was making a habit of this. Sighing inwardly, the Ghost steeled himself and then made a run for it, charging toward the window and leaping at the pane of glass, his arms tightly folded around his face to protect it from the shards.

He heard a gunshot reverberate in the small room just as he collided with the glass. He plowed through, the window exploding into a thousand tiny splinters as his weight carried him forward, into the abyss.

And then he was falling, tumbling over and over as he plummeted toward the concrete far below.

onovan rushed to the window. The damn fool would be dashed across half the street after a drop from this height. He knew he'd missed him with the shot: the pockmark in the wall spoke for itself. But there was no way he could have survived a fall from this height.

Most of the glass had gone with him when he'd punched his way through, leaving only a few ragged teeth protruding from the frame. Gingerly, so as not to slash his face on the fragments, Donovan leaned out of the window, surveying the scene below. Where he expected to see the broken remains of the man who had dived out-the Ghost, he supposed, judging by the look of him-there was nothing but an empty stretch of road. Confused, he looked up and down the sidewalk, trying to see if the man had miraculously managed to get up again after his fall, and was now making good on his escape. Again, the road seemed quiet. What had happened to the man? He'd watched him leap through the window with his own eyes, but he seemed to have suddenly disappeared.

Just as he was about to give up on the matter and attend instead to the murder scene, he heard a grunting sound from somewhere above his head. He looked up. There, pulling himself over the lip of the building, was the Ghost, powerful jets of flame spurting from canisters attached to the backs of his legs, propelling him upward. Donovan was impressed, despite himself. He raised his automatic, took aim.

"Don't move. I don't want to have to shoot you."

There was a commotion behind him. He realized that Mullins had arrived with some uniformed men. One of them balked at the sight of the corpse. Donovan didn't take his eyes off his prey.

The Ghost, clutching on to the side of the building, continued to haul himself over the edge, heading for the roof. He looked back, just before he tumbled out of sight, meeting Donovan's gaze with an unreadable expression.

Donovan pulled himself back through the makeshift opening and turned to Mullins. "To the roof. NOW!"

Mullins looked startled and out of breath, but he wasn't about to start arguing with the detective. He waved for two of the uniformed men to follow him and set off at a run, bolting down the hallway toward the stairwell. Donovan followed behind them, still clutching his automatic in his fist. He couldn't let this chance slip out of his grip. Couldn't let the Ghost get away. There was too much riding on it. His life, for a start.

It had been two days since his encounter with Gideon Reece, two days since he'd been offered that ugliest of ultimatums: take the Roman's coin, or forfeit his own life. He'd heard nothing since then, for all the crushing anguish and insomnia he'd suffered. For all the fears he held for Flora's future. Nothing until today. And then today he'd received an anonymous tip-off, about half an hour earlier, that he might find "something of interest" at the home of Dr. Henry Sinclair.

The thought had filled him with dread. The caller hadn't revealed his identity-put through a voice-only call, in fact-but he'd recognized the sinister tones of Gideon Reece on the other end of the line, had imagined him smirking as he delivered his smug message. As the man was speaking, Donovan had felt the cold fingers of fear clutching at his belly, a tightening in his chest. He knew what he was going to find down on Suffolk Street, and even though he'd rushed over in his police car, he knew he wouldn't be in time to save the doctor from his grisly fate. The call hadn't been made for that reason. Reece had no intention of allowing Sinclair to live. It was simply a warning for Donovan, a reminder that, if he didn't give Reece the answer he wanted in another two days' time, Donovan would likely end up the same way as the doctor before the weekend was out. It was a demonstration, an opportunity for Reece to show off. And it worked. Even now, Donovan was feeling dizzy with the horror of his situation. Then there was the Ghost. If he was tied up in this, there was no way Donovan was letting him get away without a fight. Whatever his role, whatever part he was playing in this macabre pantomime, he was the only lead Donovan had, the only glimmer of a way out of his situation.

All of this ran through his mind as he charged up the stairs behind Mullins. The sergeant was puffing and panting as he hit the uppermost floor and stepped aside to let the uniformed men take care of the door. Then they were all out on the rooftop, and Donovan was swinging his weapon left and right, looking for the roaring glow of the Ghost's propulsion units.

It was nowhere to be seen. He ran across the rooftop, cursing, the cold wind whipping his hair across his face. He followed the lip of the building all the way from the stairwell to the other end of the apartment block, his feet crunching on the loose chippings.

He was gone. The Ghost had disappeared, faded into the night like an apparition. Donovan shoved his weapon back into its holster with a sigh. He turned to Mullins, who was watching him from across the rooftop in the silvery-gray moonlight, waiting to see what the detective wanted him to do next.

"He's gone, Mullins. We're too late. Go and secure the crime scene. I'll follow you down in a moment."

The sergeant motioned to the uniformed men.

"Oh, and Mullins?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Find some damn coffee whilst you're down there."

The portly man gave a brief nod and then disappeared into the brightly lit stairwell.

Donovan listened to the sound of their footsteps on the treads as they receded into the distance, muffled by the howling of the wind. Then, desperate to find some sort of release, however small, he withdrew his packet of cigarettes and took out a smoke. He put the filter to his lips and pulled the ignition tab, causing a brief flare of lightand then nearly fell backward as he caught sight of the Ghost's pale face in the stuttering glare, only a few feet away, staring at him with intense interest.

Donovan went to reach for his weapon, but the Ghost shot forward and caught him by the wrist. The man had a grip of iron. His voice was quiet and gravelly. "Let's not worry about shooting each other just yet."

Donovan let his arm relax, and the vigilante released his grip. The detective took a long draw on his cigarette, and then regarded the other man with an appraising look. He was just as the descriptions had suggested: well built, mid-thirties, rugged. He was wearing a long, black trench coat and a fedora. Goggles were strapped to his face beneath the brim of the hat, but the lenses had been lifted, revealing his quick, darting eyes. It was hard to make out what color they were in the darkness.

Donovan flicked ash from the end of his cigarette, watching it drift away lazily on the wind. His heart was hammering in his chest. "Did you kill him? Sinclair?"

The Ghost smiled. "No. I didn't kill him. But I know who did."

Donovan nodded. "Are you working for them?"

The Ghost's expression was hard. "I'm working for the city. For the people of New York."

"I thought that was my job."

The Ghost snorted. "Well, do it better, then. Where were you last night when the Sensation Club was getting all shot up? At the bank the other night? Or when Sinclair was being butchered in his own bathroom?"

Donovan shrugged. "Where we you?"

"I wasn't here." The Ghost paused. "I was looking for Gideon Reece."

That name. Perhaps the Ghost could help him, after all. Donovan scratched absently at his wrist. "Did you find him?"

"He was here. He killed Sinclair. Then he left."

Donovan nodded again. "Seems we're all looking for Gideon Reece."

The Ghost shook his head. "We're all looking for the Roman. Reece is simply the means by whom we reach him."

Donovan sighed. "I've got nothing on him."

"You've got a murder."

"With no evidence. I can't do anything without evidence."

The Ghost laughed. "And there's your answer, Inspector. That's why you need me."

Donovan's cigarette had burned down to a blunt stub in his fingers. He dropped it to the floor, crushed it beneath his boot. When he looked up, the Ghost had disappeared. He turned on the spot, trying to ascertain where the vigilante had gone. He caught sight of him again, standing on the ledge that ran around the top of the building, his arms spread wide as if he were trying to catch the wind beneath outstretched, invisible wings. He turned back to look at the detective. "Three funnels. Find the car with three funnels, and you'll have your man."