Icarus. (42 page)

The first story he came to where the woman seemed "Likely" was about a young, dynamic assistant DA who was prosecuting the killer of a high school principal. The next was a hotshot Wall Street executive who was handling a large merger. He put a star by the name of a young professional tennis player who lost in the quarterfinals of a tournament. Others on that list were a policewoman who had been fired for posing nude in a magazine and the daughter of a real estate developer who was now in Paris modeling. Margaret Thatcher, who was lecturing on global economics at Harvard, was placed in the Unlikely column, as was a fifty-two-year-old lesbian colonel in the air force, a very overweight black woman who was the voice of a service that gave movie times, and Kathie Lee Gifford. Tipper Gore also went into Unlikely, although Jack's pen lingered over Less Likely for just a moment.

By midafternoon, he had twenty-two Likelys, twenty-seven Less Likelys, and a long string of Unlikelys. As he ran his finger over the final list, staring at the information he'd written down, one line popped out at him. It was when he came to the name of an up-and-coming young art dealer. She was getting attention for an avant-garde show she had put together at a gallery in SoHo. But it was the address of the gallery that got his attention: 137 Greene Street. It seemed familiar. He recognized it from somewhere. His mind drifted, trying to picture the street, imagining the last time he'd been in that neighborhood…

Bingo. One-three-seven Greene – the address of the Hanson Fitness Center, where he'd met Bryan and where Kid had worked. On the ground floor was an art gallery, the one with tons of sand in the window. It wasn't out of business, Jack thought. That was art.

The coincidence was too great. It had to be. He glanced down at her name again. Grace Childress. Yes, Grace had to be the third member of the Team.

She was the Rookie.

– "-"-"THE WINDOW OF the Waggoner Gallery was still filled with sand. Jack spent a moment studying it, realized he could stand there the rest of his life without figuring out what it was meant to say, so opened the gallery's front door and stepped inside.

The artist being displayed was named Pinkney Wallace. Jack learned from browsing through the catalog that his medium was the earth: sand, dirt, mud, grass. His artwork was scattered throughout the spacious ground floor. There were perhaps twenty large glass boxes that looked like fish tanks. Inside each box was a wave of sand or a mountain of mud. One was divided perfectly in half; one half of the box was completely empty, the other was jammed full of cut grass. He was staring at the grass when he heard a woman's voice from behind.

"Like it?"

He turned and Jack knew he had come to the right place. The woman who spoke to him was absolutely stunning. She was not tall, maybe five-foot-four, but somehow she seemed tall; her perfect posture and angular body seemed to add inches to her height. Her hair was hennaed a sparkly copper color, which was the only color on her entire body except for her bright blue eyes and thick, coppery-red glasses surrounding them. Everything else was black: a black tank-top T-shirt, covered by a sheer black blouse, a short black skirt, black tights, and mid-calf-high black boots. Her lips were thin and the tight smile they formed managed to convey an air of both confidence and vulnerability. Jack was dazzled.

"I don't understand it," he said, gesturing toward the glass box and the grass.

"It's postmodern," the woman said. "There is no understanding. Only confusion."

"Ah. Now that's something I'm familiar with." Jack stuck his hand out. "You're Grace Childress, aren't you?"

She nodded, put her hand in his, and they shook. Her grip was hard and firm and Jack felt the same electric shock he'd felt when he'd met the Mortician and the Entertainer. Although this woman was much more appealing. She had the sensual aura that the others had but she did not radiate the same air of danger, of walking too close to the edge.

"I'm Jack Keller," he continued. The name obviously meant nothing to her so he took a shot in the dark. "The Butcher," he said, and this obviously registered, he could see it in her eyes, as they narrowed, and in the curious cock of her head.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

"I'm a friend of Kid Demeter's. I'm trying to find out what happened to him."

"He's dead."

"Yes, I know," Jack said. "I mean, I'm trying to find out how. And why."

"We know how, don't we?"

"Do we?"

"Yes," she said. "Somebody killed him."

Jack stared at her a moment, startled, then he couldn't help himself. A smile of relief spread over his face.

"Would you mind saying that again?"

"Somebody killed him. I think that's pretty obvious, don't you?"

"Yes," he said, "I do."

– "-"-"THEY WERE EATING in Jerry's, a casual place specializing in simple grilled food on Prince Street.

"The Rookie, huh?" Grace was saying. "Certainly not very descriptive."

"I think it changed. I think you got another nickname as time went on."

"Well, whatever it is, it's got to be better than the Rookie."

"It is," Jack said. "It's possible he started calling you the Destination."

Grace's eyes flickered, and she tilted her head down. "No," she told him. "That wasn't me. Kid told me about the Destination. It was someone from his past. Someone… well, let's just say he told me about her. I don't really feel comfortable sharing his secrets. Even now."

"He told me about her, too," Jack said. "But he also told me that he'd met someone he thought could be a second Destination. I think that could be you."

"Why do you think that?" Grace asked.

"Just a hunch. He told me a few things… and you seem to fit the description." Jack raised his hand and when the waiter came over, he ordered a second beer. He looked at Grace, who shook her head. She was still working on her first. "Do you know why he came up with the nickname 'Destination'?" Jack asked her.

"No."

"Topeka's a place, Cleveland's a town… Rome is a destination."

She smiled, a sad smile, and shook her head. "I don't know if that's me or not," she told him. "But he did always have this idealized, dewy-eyed fantasy about me."

"Maybe it was more accurate than you give him credit for."

"No. Believe me. I throw things, I bite my nails, I've done my share of things I shouldn't have done. Hell, I still do. I make a lot of mistakes."

"Maybe he just didn't care about them."

"No, he didn't see them. He didn't want to see them."

"How'd you get to know him?"

"He picked me up on the street. I was going into the gallery, he was heading up to the gym. I brushed him off – I'm not big on street pickups – but Kid was extremely persistent. He started coming into the gallery, we talked, and then one night I was out at a club with a girlfriend and he was there. He was by himself, it was late, maybe two or three in the morning, and he looked kind of rattled. I asked him what the matter was and he said he'd just had a fight with someone, an argument. He wouldn't tell me what it was about, not then, but he looked so vulnerable he was hard to resist. We wound up talking almost all night. And then… you know how these things happen."

"Did he ever tell you what the argument was about? Or who it was with?"

She hesitated. "I told you. I'm not completely comfortable sharing his secrets."

"Are there a lot of secrets to know about him?"

"There are a lot of secrets to know about everybody, aren't there?"

"Yes," Jack said, "I suppose there are." He took a long swig of his beer. "Were you still seeing him when he died?"

"No," she said. Again, she hesitated, seemed as if she were going to say more, but stopped.

"Who broke it off?" he asked.

"I did. It wasn't right. I mean, Kid was interesting and great-looking and I liked him a lot, but it wasn't going to go anywhere, not for me. He wasn't what I needed or what I wanted."

"How did he accept that?"

"He didn't accept it at all. I told you, Kid was persistent." She pursed her lips together. A memory. "Did you ever see him lift a really heavy weight? Well, that's what I was to him. He thought if he pushed himself harder, worked himself more, eventually it would happen between us. There was no quit in him. That's why I know he'd choose life – if he had a choice." She drained her beer. "Is there anything else you'd like to ask me?"

"Where were you when Kid fell?"

"Am I on your suspect list?" When Jack shrugged, she didn't seem offended, just said, "I had an opening at my gallery that night. Tons of witnesses." Grace waved her hand in the air, almost apologetically. "Listen," she said then, "Kid was a club guy. He knew every druggie and pervert below Fourteenth Street. It comes with the territory. Whoever did it, you'll never find him."

"I'm pretty sure that him is a her. There was a woman with him in his apartment the night he died."

That seemed to surprise her. "How do you know that?"

"The police."

"I thought you said the police weren't involved."

"They're not. But they were involved enough to know that."

She stuttered a bit over her next few words. The news had clearly thrown her. "But just being with him, that doesn't mean she killed him, does it? Even if you find her, it doesn't prove anything."

"Maybe not. But I won't know till I find her."

Jack didn't say anything after that. The waiter came and broke the silence and Jack paid the check. As Grace started to stand, Jack spoke. "Kid told me he spoke to the Destination. The new Destination. She told him a secret that bothered him a lot. And he told her things about himself. Some of the things were disturbing. Was that you?"

"It might have been." She sank back into her chair, closed her eyes briefly, and nodded. "I've got a secret or two. And he told me things. And they scared me."

"What things?"

"Things that still scare me."

"Tell me." But she shook her head. When he realized he would get no more information about that conversation, he asked, "Do you know the other women he was seeing? Did he ever mention their nicknames?"

"Like who?"

"Samsonite?"

"No."

"She fits with what you were saying. He said she works in a club, she wants to be a singer. In the meantime she deals."

"There are a lot of those. Who else?"

"The Murderess?"

She picked her head up, her blue eyes flashing. But the spark was immediately extinguished and she shook her head yet again. A brief pause, then, "Did he tell you why he called her the Murderess?"

"No. But Kid's nicknames were fairly pointed."

"I guess it would be too obvious if it was her, wouldn't it?"

"I don't think anything is too obvious right now."

Another silence settled in. It was broken when Grace reached across the table, touched his arm, and said, "You're going to go looking for them, aren't you?" The briefest of smiles. "I mean, once you check out my alibi." Jack nodded and she went on. "I know the club scene. Almost as well as Kid did. Let me help you find Samsonite."

"Why would you do that?"

Grace Childress stood now and ran a hand through her short, coppery hair. "That'll be one of my secrets," she said.

– "-"-"THE NEXT MORNING was a workout with Bryan. They were out on the balcony and Jack felt strong as he was put through his paces. He updated Bryan on his quest, told him about finding Leslee, the Entertainer, in her apartment, and Bryan was astounded by that. He told Jack he'd never seen a dead body before and he seemed genuinely troubled that Jack had had to experience it. Jack then told him about tracking down Grace, who turned out to be the Destination as well as the Rookie. He told him that they were going to hit a few clubs that night, searching for Samsonite and possibly even the Murderess. Again, Bryan apologized as he realized he must have known who she was from the gallery below the gym, just had never made the proper connection. As always, Bryan seemed interested but slightly confused. Jack was never sure how much information he was actually absorbing. He asked a few questions, said he was amazed at Jack's ability to track these people down, gave Jack the names of a few clubs Kid used to frequent, hoping that might be helpful. As the end of the hour approached, Jack was sweating and he felt invigorated, more than satisfied. But he noticed that Bryan seemed sad. Or sadder than usual.

"That's good," he said, as Jack started his second set of squats. He counted off with each one, as if he'd lose count unless he said the number out loud. "Six… seven… very good… Fuckin' A. You are Hercules Unchained, man."

"I've heard that one before." Jack finished his final squat, leaned against one of the weight machines to catch his breath.

"Yeah. Me and Kid, we used to tell each other that, down in the cellar, you know, to pump ourselves up." Bryan paused. He started to speak, stumbled over the first two words. Jack looked up and saw how nervous he was. "I-I s-saw him last night," Bryan managed to say. "Kid."

"What?"

"Yo, it wasn't him or nothin'. Just a guy who reminded me of him. And for a second, I kinda forgot he was dead." The sadness hit him full force now. "I miss him," he said. "Kid was the only person I could talk to."

"Dom."

"Huh?"

"For me, that's Dom. He was my father's best friend, now he's mine. I've been telling him things since I was twelve. Anything I've ever thought, Dom knows."

"Yeah, that was me and Kid. I didn't have to speak, even. He could always tell what I was thinkin'. Ever since we were little."

"You're lucky. Not many people ever have friends like that."

"Yeah, I'm gonna miss that. I really am."

– "-"-"JACK PICKED GRACE up at twelve-thirty that night. He couldn't help but notice that she was wearing a short white silk dress and white lace stockings that left very little to the imagination. And she couldn't help but notice that he was noticing.