Hell's Horizon (24 page)

I arrived at the phone booth with a couple of minutes to spare. Stood in out of the cool night breeze, yawning. A patrol car passed, two officers giving me a suspicious once-over. I half-waved and they carried on without stopping. Then the phone rang and I answered immediately. “If this is a joke, I’ll kick your—”

“There’s a phone outside the post office in Marlin Street. You know where that is?”

“Yeah,” I said cautiously.

“How long will it take you to cycle there?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“I’ll call in twenty-five. If you’re being tailed, pass it by and I’ll get in contact another time.”

“Who is this?” I snapped. “Why should I—”

He was gone again.

I hung up and considered my next move. It could be a trap but it would have been just as easy to strike at my home or outside the library as across town. This way I had time to call for assistance. Besides, the caller sounded scared.

With hardly any traffic to contend with, and jumping red lights, I made Marlin Street in seventeen minutes. As far as I could tell I wasn’t being followed, though from my experience with Nick I knew how simple it was for a cautious hunter to track his prey undetected.

I’d been thinking hard about the voice and this time, when the phone rang, I spoke first.
“Jerry?”

There was a nervous pause, then, “No names. There’s an all-night diner at the top of this street. I’ll be waiting.”

I was sure when I hung up—it was Jerry Falstaff, from work. I’d seen virtually nothing of him since The Cardinal took me off regular duty. What was he doing, calling me in such a provocative fashion? Only one way to find out…

A handful of late-night souls were scattered around the diner, eating silently, reading or staring out the windows. Jerry was near the back. From the way he sat, I knew he cradled a gun under cover of the tablecloth. I glanced around at the other diners again, searching for danger, but they seemed oblivious.

I strolled across but didn’t sit.

“That a gun in your lap or are you just pleased to see me?”

“Get something to eat,” Jerry ordered, voice low and strained. “Make it look natural. Sit opposite me and cover the area to my back. First sign of trouble, open fire and make a break for the kitchen—there’s a door, leads to a set of stairs running down to an alley.”

“I’m sitting nowhere and doing nothing till you tell me what this is all about.”

Jerry looked up briefly. “You trust me, Al?”

“I’ve never had reason not to,” I answered indirectly.

“Then listen carefully and do what I say.” He took a bite out of a large roll and, using it for cover, muttered out of the side of his mouth, “It’s about Breton Furst.”

I took my jacket off, draped it over the back of the chair and went to order a slice of pizza. When I returned, Jerry let me have it.

“I graduated from basic training with Breton. We kept in touch. He drew me aside at Party Central a few weeks ago and asked me to be his Tonto.” That was a phrase we used in the Troops when one of us passed a message to another to be opened in the event of his disappearance or death. Sometimes the message was no more than a note to be handed to a loved one, but other times it was a way to gain revenge from beyond the grave.

Tontos were forbidden—if you were found holding a note that contained even a hint of classified information, you were dismissed without benefits, and that was the most lenient reprisal—but common. We looked out for one another in the Troops. It was a way of protecting ourselves from the whims of our masters. They never knew if a Troop had left behind a Tonto, so they tended not to sacrifice us lightly.

“I fled as soon as I heard about the execution,” Jerry continued. “Called in sick and went on the lam. Been sleeping in my van. Sent my wife and kids into hiding.”

“You think whoever killed Furst knows about you?”

“Probably not, but would
you
chance it?” One of the customers rose and Jerry’s body tightened. I thought he was going to start firing, but then the guy tossed a tip down and ambled away. Jerry relaxed.

“Do you have the message on you?” I asked.

“I’m not crazy. I read it—figured I owed him that much—then burned the fucker. Laid low and let some time pass before getting in touch with you.”

“I was mentioned in the message?”

“No. But I heard you were with him when he was killed and I figured you were as good a person to come to as any. I don’t trust anybody else.”

“What makes you think you can trust me?”

He shrugged. “It was your girlfriend he died for.”

I swallowed a mouthful of pizza. “What was in the message?”

“Breton was on duty the night Nicola Hornyak was killed. Some guy bribed him to leave his post at ten o’clock—said he wanted to sneak in a friend. According to Breton, that sort of shit happens all the time at the Skylight.”

“Did he know the guy?”

“Not straight off.”

“But he found out?”

“I’m coming to that. There was more. He told Breton to come up to his room between two and three and let out the
friend
. Said he’d be chained to the bed and wearing a mask which Breton wasn’t to remove.”

“It was Nic’s room?” I guessed.

“No. The room next door, 814.”

“
Nicholas’s
room,” I sighed.

Jerry looked surprised. “You know already?”

“I’ve been digging around.”

“Breton only found out when Hornyak’s picture turned up in the papers. He shat himself.”

“Why not tell Frank as soon as he heard about the murder in 812? He must have known it wasn’t coincidence.”

“He wasn’t thinking clearly. See, he let the guy out in the middle of the night like he’d promised. He was masked, chained to the bed and naked, as Breton was expecting, but also mad as hell. He wanted to know where the bastard who’d tied him up was hiding, threatened to have both their heads. Breton told him to shut up or he’d remove his mask. That worked. He got dressed and left.”

“Furst didn’t see his face?”

“No. He’d no idea who he was.”

But I did. Nick’s lover of the night, Charlie Grohl. I hadn’t gone looking for Grohl—he’d slipped my mind—and now I cursed myself for the oversight.

“Breton didn’t hear anything in 812,” Jerry went on, “but only a fool would think the two events weren’t connected. The guy who bribed him probably killed the girl too. He thought about going to Frank, but that would have meant admitting to taking a bribe. Plus he’d untied and released the one person who could identify the killer. It would have cost him his job, maybe worse. So he kept his mouth shut.”

“I can understand that,” I grunted. “What happened next?”

“For a long time, nothing. When he saw Nicholas Hornyak’s photo in the paper and realized it was the dead girl’s brother who’d bribed him, he almost confessed—that was proof that the events of the two rooms were connected. But having kept quiet so long, he figured he’d be better off saying nothing.

“Nearly two weeks later, someone called Breton. The caller knew everything, how Nicholas Hornyak bribed him, that he’d been in the room next to the girl’s, that he’d kept quiet. He said he needed a favor and arranged a meeting. Breton didn’t want to go but he had no choice.

“They met in a movie theater. It was dark and the blackmailer tried not to show his face, but Breton made him and put it in his message.”

“Who was it?” I snapped, certain it must be the mysterious Charlie Grohl.

“In a minute. I’m almost finished. The blackmailer said he was looking for the body of a guy called Allegro Jinks. He thought it was in the Fridge. He wanted Breton to go there and find it. If he cooperated, his secret would be safe.

“Back home, Breton wrote up his confession and passed it along to me. He said at the end that he was on his way to the Fridge. He didn’t know what would happen but wanted to make sure—if something went wrong—that the guy who set him up didn’t escape unpunished.”

“The
name
,” I snarled. I was afraid someone would burst in and pump a bullet through his head before he could spit it out. “Who the hell was it?”

Jerry smiled thinly, glanced around, then said, “Does
Howard Kett
ring any bells?”

19

I
t was a three-hour train ride to the lake resort. I grabbed a window seat and spent the journey reflecting.

I’d run Jerry through his tale a couple more times, in case he’d missed anything. I put the names of Charlie Grohl, Rudi Ziegler and Priscilla Perdue to him, none of which were familiar.

Jerry felt better by the end of the conversation. He’d dreaded making contact, afraid he’d be killed like Furst when he met me. Now that it was over, and he had my word that I wouldn’t mention his name to anyone, he could relax. He’d lie low a few more days before reporting back to work, then try to drive all memories of Breton’s message and our meeting from his thoughts.

He left before I did. I hadn’t thanked him, as thanks were unnecessary. We both knew the risk he’d taken and the debt I owed. It went without saying that if he ever needed a favor, he had only to call.

I stayed on at the diner, thinking about Nick and Charlie Grohl. Nick had said he’d been with his lover the whole night, but according to Breton, Grohl had been trussed up and left alone. Where had Nick been? Busy slicing up his sister? Plotting with Howard Kett?

Howie
…

Where did the cop fit in? Earlier he’d warned me away from Nick. Now I knew he’d sent Breton Furst to the Fridge in search of Allegro Jinks, which meant he knew about the Wami imitator. Had Kett killed Nic and set Wami on the Fursts?

The evidence was strong, but I wasn’t convinced. Kett was a son of a bitch, and I was sure he had what it took to kill if needed, but he wasn’t the kind of man who’d calmly toy with the likes of Paucar Wami and The Cardinal. He was involved, clearly, but I couldn’t see him as a criminal mastermind.

I called his office the morning after my meeting with Jerry. He was on a week’s vacation, not due back until the weekend. I hung up and phoned Bill. Pretended I was calling to say hello. Maneuvered the conversation around to Howie. Expressed surprise when Bill told me he was on vacation and asked where a guy like Kett went in his spare time. Once I was off the phone with Bill, I booked a return ticket and cycled to the train station.

It was early afternoon when I reached the hotel, only to learn Kett and family were out for the day. I positioned myself at a shaded table near the front of the building, pulled on a pair of dark glasses and spent the next few hours sipping nonalcoholic cocktails while keeping watch for the Ketts.

They turned up after seven. Howie, his wife, and five of their eight (or was it nine?) kids. Howie was in a pair of shorts, a flashy Hawaiian shirt and a cardboard ten-gallon hat. I grimaced and wished I’d bought a camera-phone the last time I upgraded my cell. The kids were arguing about what to do next. As they drew closer and entered the hotel, I heard Howie say they’d change clothes, then head down to the jetty to unwind.

A quarter of an hour later they reemerged, Howie in more somber attire. I let them get ahead, rose and slowly followed.

The kids started to pester an old guy on a yacht down at the jetty. I gathered he knew them by the way he didn’t lose his temper when they clambered aboard. Mrs. Kett warned them to be careful and wandered over to keep an eye on them. Howie stood gazing out over the water at the setting sun, shirt rippling in the lake breeze.

I stepped up behind him and said, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he agreed, turning with a smile that disappeared when I raised my glasses and winked. “
Jeery
?” he gawped. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Came for the fresh lake air.”

He stared at me suspiciously. “Bullshit.”

“You’re right. I came to ask you to connect the dots between Nicola and Nicholas Hornyak, Charlie Grohl, Breton Furst and Allegro Jinks.”

He turned ghostly white. “You scum,” he snarled. “I’m on vacation with my wife and children, and you have the fucking nerve to follow me here and—”

“If you want to create a scene, I’m game,” I interrupted softly. “I don’t mind having it out in front of your family.”

I thought he was going to hit me but then his shoulders sagged. He yelled at his wife that he’d be back soon, jerked his head toward the far end of the jetty and struck out for it. He walked fast and I only caught up with him at the edge, where he stood rooted to the boards like a statue overlooking the lake.

“Make it quick, asshole,” he snapped. “I’m only here for a week. I want to waste as little as possible of it on you.”

“Tell me about Nicholas Hornyak. Why did you warn me away?”

“I told you, he’s got friends who look out for him.”

“Name them.”

“No.”

“OK. Let’s forget about Nick for a while. What about Breton Furst? You sent him after Allegro Jinks. That inquiry led to his death. His wife and kids too. Care to tell me what they died for?”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Kett said. “I was trying to locate a missing person. I had no idea it would end up the way it did.”

“How did you know about him and Nicholas? Come to that, how’d you know about Jinks?” When he didn’t respond I sat and hung my head out over the water, studying my reflection. “This is a lovely spot. Come here a lot?”

“Most years,” he answered guardedly.

“Tell me what I want to know or it’ll be a long time before you come again. How long do you think they’ll send you down for if I go public? Nobody would have raised much of a fuss if it was just Nicola and Breton Furst. But the children… People are outraged, thirsty for blood. They want the killer ideally, but I’m sure an accomplice would do. You might even get the chair.”

The grinding of Kett’s teeth was louder than any motor on the lake and I was half-afraid he’d chew down to the gums. But, with great effort, he said, “It all goes back to Charlie Grohl.”

I hid my smile and waved for him to continue.

“Grohl got in touch with me shortly after the press ran details of Nicola’s death. He’d been in the room next to hers with her brother and was afraid his name would surface. He didn’t know Nicholas Hornyak—he was in town a couple of days, they hooked up at some gay joint and went to the Skylight for sex. Hornyak took off during the night, leaving Grohl tied to the bed. A guard let him go. Grohl was furious, went looking for Nick, didn’t find him, left the city and went home.”

“He knew nothing about the murder?”

“No.”

“What did he think when Nicola’s name turned up in the papers?”

“At first, nothing—it was a week after the event, so he didn’t connect it to the night he was there. Then he heard a rumor that she’d been murdered the week before and realized he might be implicated if Nicholas had been involved in her death. That’s why he told me his story.”

“Why come to
you
?” I asked.

“He made inquiries. Knew I was handling the case. Knew he could trust me to keep his name to myself.”

That sounded dubious but I let it pass. “So he pointed the finger at Nicholas. Why didn’t you go after him?”

“I did,” Kett sighed. “That’s when I was warned to keep my nose out. My kids were threatened. I didn’t like it but I backed off. When you started sniffing, I was told to have a word with you. That’s the bitch about these fuckers—give in to them once and you’re giving in the rest of your life.”

“We keep coming back to these so-called
friends
of Nick’s. Names, Howie.”

“And wind up like the Fursts?” He laughed bitterly. “If you put a gun to my children’s heads like these guys did, and tell me to talk, I’ll yap like a dog. Otherwise go fuck yourself.”

I wasn’t happy but I could see no room for leverage. As Kett guessed, I wasn’t the sort of guy who’d kill a child.

“Tell me about Allegro Jinks,” I moved on.

“I’ll get to that,” he said. “Grohl gave me a description of the Troop who freed him. It didn’t take me long to case the Skylight and pinpoint Furst. Although I’d kept Nicholas Hornyak out of my investigations, I hadn’t let the case die. I’d been pursuing other angles, asking questions about Nicola. I knew she’d been seen with a guy answering to Paucar Wami’s description.”

“You found that out?” I was surprised.

“I do know a
bit
about detective work,” he sneered. “Then a woman turned up looking for her missing son. Sobbing her eyes out, begging for help. She said he’d had problems in the past but had seemed to be settling down. Then he shaved his head, tattooed his face with snakes, split from his friends and took up with some rich white girl.”

“Allegro Jinks,” I muttered.

“I searched for him but, as his mother had said, he’d vanished. Then I heard about a Chinese tattooist who’d been ripped to pieces shortly before Jinks went missing. I put two and two together and came up with the Fridge. I know Wami leaves a lot of bodies there—or so rumor has it—and I figured that was the only chance I had of finding Jinks.

“I couldn’t just trot along to the Fridge and ask if they had Allegro Jinks on ice. It doesn’t work that way. I had to go through someone who was part of the system, who wouldn’t be questioned, someone like—”

“—Breton Furst,” I finished.

“There were others I could have used, but I had recent dirt on Furst. I reckoned he’d still be shaky about not coming clean when he should have. He’d be easy to manipulate.”

“You met him in person,” I noted. “That was foolish.”

“Couldn’t discuss it over the phone,” Kett countered. “Besides, we met in a dark theater. I didn’t think he’d recognize me. Obviously—since you’re here—I was wrong.”

“Furst left a note,” I said, quietly analyzing Kett’s story. “So you sent him to ask about Jinks. What next?”

“Nothing. I heard about his murder. Figured it tied in and that if anyone knew I’d put him up to making inquiries about Jinks, I was fucked. Kept my head down and booked a vacation. Thought I’d left the mess behind till you turned up.”

A neat story. I wasn’t sure I believed it, but it was neat.

“You think Nick arranged Furst’s murder?” I asked.

“I neither know nor give a shit,” he answered. “I feel lousy about what happened to his wife and kids, but what can I do? Step forward and risk my own family? Nuh-uh. I’ve had my fill of killing. You investigate if you want. Me, when I’m finished here, I’m going back to less lethal detective work.”

“You’re a coward, Howie.”

“So was Breton Furst. Difference is, I’m a
live
coward.”

I stood, brushed the dust from the back of my pants and wondered how much of his story was true. It was easy to call Kett a coward—and easy for him to admit it—but we both knew he’d gone after tougher fish than Nick Hornyak, regardless of the risk to himself or his family. Bill had often told me—usually when I was belittling his boss—of the time Kett crawled out onto the top of a train to take on a couple of teenagers stoned out of their heads on PCP, how he’d kept after a gang boss till he nailed him, in spite of a mail bomb and an attempt on his oldest son’s life.

“You’ll save us both a shitload of trouble if you play straight with me,” I said. “Nobody needs to know. Tell me the truth and I’ll leave you be.”

“I’ve told the truth,” he insisted.

“Some of it, perhaps, but not all. I’m no fool, Howie.”

“I think you are,” he said softly. “A fool to come here. A fool to keep pressing. It looks to me like Paucar Wami killed Jinks and the Fursts. You keep on with this and next thing you know he’ll be coming for
you
. What’ll you do then, Jeery?”

I smiled as I thought of what he’d say if I told him about my relationship to Paucar Wami, but sweet as it would be to watch his face drop, that was information best not shared.

“See you in the city, Howie,” I said, taking my leave.

“Not if Paucar Wami sees you first,” he retorted, then scurried off to collect his family and shepherd them back to the hotel.

I could have caught the last train home, but this was a nice little town and I was due a night off, so I checked into a different hotel, had a meal in a quiet restaurant, bought some toiletries in a shop, then strolled back to my room to call Paucar Wami.

I hadn’t forgotten about my father in my haste to catch up with Kett, but if I’d told him of my meeting with Jerry, he would have insisted on coming with me to
assist
in the interrogation, and though I bore no love for Howard Kett, I didn’t want to see him winding up as bait on the end of a fishhook.

There was no answer when I called, so I went for a walk and tried his number again later.

“Al m’boy. Sorry I missed you earlier. Couldn’t take the call. My hands were full.” There was a groan in the background.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Our friend Nicholas. I tired of trailing him, so I—”

“No!” I shouted, gripping the phone furiously.

Wami chuckled. “Relax. Nicholas is safe. This is some nobody I picked up off the street. Would you care to share a few last words with him?”

“You’re a sick son of a bitch.”