Moonlight Falls (12 page)

And then, just like that, he was gone.

Behind me, a taxi pulled up. Right on my bumper.

The driver hit the horn. I guess he didn’t know I was a cop—that I actually did own the road. Sort of.

No choice but to drive on through the exit, back out onto the main road. I peered into the rear view, into the side mirrors. Nothing ahead of me, nothing behind or to the sides.

No blue Toyota Landcruiser, that is.

But I had learned something: I was being tailed by a white-faced creep with a scar-tissue map on his lower right-hand side. Exactly who he was, what he wanted, I had no way of knowing. But I knew it couldn’t be good.

Reaching into my jacket, I pulled out my Browning, thumbed off the safety, set it on the seat beside me.

Browning High Power 9 mm, first introduced to U.S.A. law enforcement in 1935, the year my dad was born.

A most valuable companion.

27

THE LAW OFFICE WAS located on the top floor of a newly constructed downtown tower. Its floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the Hudson River, and miles beyond its banks, the green hills that defined the border between New York State and Massachusetts. Seated behind a large desk built of mahogany was Joel Howard, Esquire, a large, thickly black-haired lawyer of about fifty. Dressed in charcoal suit trousers and white button-down oxford, the sleeves rolled up neatly to just below the elbows, Howard sat back almost comfortably in his chair, horn-rim eyeglasses in one hand, a white handkerchief in the other. He was using the handkerchief to clean the eyeglass lenses while the big man seated before him explained the awkward position his wife’s sudden death was putting him in.

“I appreciate what you’re going through, Jake,” Howard said, sliding the now clean glasses back onto his round face. “It’s just that if I do what you’re asking me to do I could lose my license, be disbarred, run out of town … so to speak.”

Jake ran the palms of both hands down his ashen face.

When he stood up, Howard couldn’t help but appreciate the big man’s sheer volume of height and weight. He also couldn’t help but notice how wired the man appeared, his unshaven face tighter than a tick, dark hair disheveled, shirt and pants wrinkled, sweat stains visible beneath the armpits.

Standing facing the window and the river beyond it, Jake shoved hands into his pants pockets, stared out onto an inland seagull riding the wind gusts that shot past the tower.

“How long we been working together, Joel?” he asked.

The lawyer crossed arms over his chest.

“Twenty, twenty-five years.”

“And in that time have I ever asked you to do anything illegal?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Is what I’m asking you to do now illegal?”

“Adding a clause calling for the cremation of your wife after the fact of her death may not necessarily be illegal, seeing as you are now the legal guardian to her estate, including her manner of death. It’s just unethical, that’s all.”

Outside the window, the seagull pulled in its wings, shot nose downward, until it spread the wings back out again, shot back up into its original position.

“It’s only unethical if people find out about it.”

The lawyer shook his head. He felt that by arguing with his client—the Captain of the Stormville Police—he would get nowhere. Still, he felt it his civic duty to voice his opinion in the matter.

“I understand there is an investigation underway to determine Scarlet’s cause of death?”

“I initiated the investigation myself.”

“Yet you want to alter her living will. Won’t this at the very least, place you in jeopardy? Make you a suspect?”

Jake, eyes still on the seagull as it hooked a right, flew out towards the river, its gray and white body quickly diminishing in the big open sky.

“I’ll worry about that.”

Silence filled the law office. So quiet and weighted that you couldn’t help but hear the heavy winds slamming against the glass walls.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Jake?” Howard posed after a time.

The big Captain nodded.

“Are trying to destroy your own body of evidence?”

Stepping away from the window, Jake slowly walked behind his lawyer’s desk. He stood over Joel Howard while reaching into his blazer pocket, pulled his 9 mm service revolver from its shoulder holster.

He cocked back the hammer, pointed the weapon at the lawyer’s head.

“Make the correction.”

Without a word, the lawyer shifted himself around in his chair, laid his hands out onto the computer keyboard. He brought up the living will of Scarlet Montana, scrolled down to the place where “Manner of Burial” was to be addressed. He deleted “traditional Christian burial” and fingered in its place, “immediate cremation.”

When the short task was accomplished, he printed the new living will that still retained the date in which it was originally created some four years prior.

He pulled it from the printer and without looking up at his handgun wielding client, said, “There, I’ve done what you asked me to do. Just don’t ask me to copy her signature.”

Pulling back the 9 mm, Jake re-holstered the weapon. He threw open the desk drawer, found a pen, executed Scarlet’s name in the necessary space, dated it and folded it up.

“There,” he said. “What’s done is done.”

“Shit,” Howard said with a roll of his eyes.

Jake Montana made his way towards the office door.

“If you would be so kind as to immediately currier a copy of the will to the M.E. at the Stormville Medical Arts Center. I need to get the ball rolling on this a.s.a.p.”

Howard stood, started shoving the will into a manila envelope.

“Anything else you want of me?”

The tone was as sarcastic as it was resigned.

“This goes no farther than the walls of this office,” Jake said. “I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.”

“Gee, thanks,” Howard said.

“Fuckin’ lawyers,” Jake whispered as he left.

28

BY THE TIME I entered the St. Pious Catholic Church Gymnasium on Upper Loudon Road, the Psychic Fair was already in session. There were twelve of them sitting in folding chairs, circle formation, legs crossed, lotus style.

On the near end of the gym to my left, under the ceiling-mounted basketball hoop, was a long table. Set upon it were plates of sprouts, tofu, carrots, celery and lots of other mostly vegetarian fare. Plus one of those extra big, plug-in, percolating coffee pots.

No doughnuts.

As far as I could tell, the Fair was made up entirely of women of varying ages and builds. Except for one man whom I took for the leader. He was a tall, flabby man of about fifty, with long stark gray hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. He was dressed in what I can only describe as bright red and yellow pajamas.

No shoes.

Sandals.

His chin and upper lip were hidden behind a thick goatee.

He turned to me.

“Can I help you with something?”

I walked over to the table, poured some coffee into a Styrofoam cup, added a squirt of the only milk to be found: soy milk. No plastic stirrers.

“My psychic gateways need some clearing,” I smiled. “I was hoping you could help.”

A college age young woman with long hair and tie-dyed t-shirt chuckled.

Gray hair shot her an angry look. “Kismet,” he snapped. “Please.”

I thought,
What ever happened to peace, love and understanding?

“I’m a P.I. investigating the death of one of your members,” I said. “Scarlet Montana.”

The entire group, as if on cue, immediately shifted their gaze from me to the floor.

Gray hair perked up.

“What is death, Mr. —”

“Divine,” I said.

“That’s a rather unusual name. Beautiful, but unusual all the same.”

“It was my grandfather’s name,” I said. “My father took it from his father, passed it down to me.”

For a brief moment, he seemed to be beaming.

He said, “Tell me, Mr. Divine, do you understand the transformation of the soul, the other side of silence as it were?”

I must have looked as dumb as I felt. Because gray hair offered up a sad smile.

“Allow me to speak more plainly: how would you describe death?”

“I’m tied to a chair, the lids on my eyes pinned back. On the television, a commercial- free ‘Apprentice’ marathon.”

This time, even gray hair had to smile. He turned to a woman on his direct right. A woman of about forty, I guessed. Short, rather plump, with thick round glasses and long black hair streaked with white.

“How would you describe death, Suma?”

The woman raised her head, tentatively. Across her neck she wore about two dozen beaded necklaces. She seemed kind of frightened.

She cleared her throat.

“Death does not exist,” she said in this high-pitched, almost rattled voice. “Death is a mortal term. We are immortal. Therefore, death has no meaning for us. It has no place in our vocabulary.”

“Thank you, Suma,” he said. “There you have it, Mr. Divine. Scarlet Montana is not dead. She is merely transfigured into another life form.”

“Well, I guess that about puts me out of a job,” I said, while sipping my coffee. It tasted like liquid dirt.

I set the cup back onto the table.

“Reincarnation,” I said.

Gray hair smiled.

He said, “Scarlet truly believed in the resurrection not only of the soul. But of the corpus too.”

All this enlightenment was making me dizzy.

I said, “Can anyone here tell me if Scarlet had been acting strangely over the past few days or weeks?” Again, the entire group stared at the floor.

Still, I persisted: “Did she seem depressed or angry? Was she acting out in any way that might seem unusual to any of you? Did she—”

“Mr. Divine,” Gray hair interrupted. “As you can see, this is a closed session and you are violating our right of assemblage. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

He uncrossed his lotus legs and stood up. All six feet six of him.

Jesus H. Christmas, behold the psychic giant.

I knew if I persisted much longer, he might whip my glutes with a bean sprout.

“Take it easy, Father,” I said. “I’m trying to get to the bottom of a tragedy.”

“There is no tragedy because there is no death. And it’s not Father, it’s Reverend, if you don’t mind.”

I backed off.

I said, “Well, then, Reverend, I’ll take my leave, back to the world of the mortals.”

I reached into my pocket for my wallet, slid out as many cards as I had on me, began passing them around to the circle of ladies.

The one named Kismet smiled.

“Richard V. Divine,” she said. “Masseuse, Personal Trainer and Private Investigator. Might you sing and dance as well.”

“Wasn’t room for all that on the card,” I said. Then, “If any of you happen to recall anything of importance, I urge you to give me a call.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” the good Reverend said.

By the time I got to him, I had two cards left. I placed them back in my wallet, underneath my silver-plated badge.

“Sorry,” I said. “None for you.”

He sat back down.

“Oh, and why is that, Mr. Divine?”

“You’re psychic,” I said. “You already know my number.”

He smiled, laughed a little under his breath.

He held out his hand, as though inviting me to place my hand inside it.

“May I?” he inquired.

I felt my stomach tighten up. My hands were scratched up. Inexplicably. But then, this didn’t seem exactly like the time to deny the man, give him an excuse to inform a higher authority of my willingness to hide something should it come to that.

I set my left hand in his, palm up.

Surprisingly, he said nothing about the cuts as if they weren’t even there. Instead he ran the tip of his right index finger along a thin line that curved its way around the meat of my thumb. After gazing down at the palm for a few beats, he let go of my hand, smiled, shook his head as though puzzled.

“What is it?” I asked, my eyes nervously veering from his to the many women who circled him.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “It’s just that your palm, it’s giving me a reading that just can’t be.”

“And what reading is that?”

He laughed again.

“It could very well have something to do with those recent abrasions,” he remarked. “But if you must know, it says you’re already dead.”

I nodded.

“I had an accident with a bullet to the head a few years back,” I explained. “I
should
be dead. So they tell me anyway.”

“But then, death does not exist, does it, Mr. Divine?”

“I guess I’m living proof,” I said. “I just wish I could say the same for Scarlet.”

29

I WAS STANDING INSIDE the open double doorway that accessed the Stormville Medical Center autopsy room. My ears pricked up to the soft classical music Stormville Pathologist George Robb was broadcasting from a rather expensive stereo console system that was set up on the lab counter directly behind the ceiling-mounted weight scale.

In the air tonight, the pungent odor of formaldehyde and alcohol.

Scarlet Montana’s white cadaver had already been removed from cold storage and was laid out on the table. From where I stood, I could clearly see the blood and water that was dripping off the body and collecting inside the stainless steel vat positioned beneath the table’s drain. Thoughtfully, Robb had covered her private parts with a green sheet.

The Pathologist had his back to me.

He was standing over the body, contemplating it the same way a mad scientist might contemplate a Frankenstein monster just before bringing it back to life. In his right hand he gripped the water spigot with which he’d used to wash the body down.