Myth Man (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

P
RESTO ANSWERED. “JACK? TELL me we won the lottery.”

The voice that came back was deep and hoarse from years of cigar smoke. “Not today, pal,” he said hoarsely.

Dominick heard his mother’s bed creak and knew she was listening in. He would have to speak louder.

“Who asked for me, Jack? Don’t tell me I’m popular enough now that I have a psychotic fan club—murderers calling in, challenging the dough-boy detective.”

Jack hissed. “Why do you say things like that about yourself?”

“Because everyone else does behind my back. You’re upfront. No bullshit. Give me the whole poop. I know this is not a social call.”

Fourth Precinct Commander Jack Burton inhaled. He truly empathized with his prized and despised detective. Presto was misunderstood. He meekly voiced opinions contrary to his superiors. When he was right, there was resentment. Accolades and limelight made Presto shuffle to the shadows. He always let others jockey to center stage for their public bows in the winner’s circle.

The portly detective was too nice. Too often, our predatory human culture eats people of Presto’s personal makeup. They get taken advantage of. Meek, they absorb the abuse like a giant sea sponge, too soft to fight back.

Burton exhaled. “A priest was murdered today in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. There are plenty of eyewitnesses and clues galore, but thus far, there are no concrete suspects. The killer dressed as a priest and casually strolled his way through restricted areas. In fact, security led him to the eventual murder scene.”

Burton stopped to allow questions. When the detective did not comment, he continued. “I’m not sure if you’re a church going man, Dom, but today’s Ash Wednesday.”

Presto’s eyes were closed in concentration, but they suddenly snapped open. This time Presto did interject. “How was he killed, Jack?”

Burton knew his detective was onto something. “He was shot in the head, presumably at close range.” The precinct commander paused to muster his next words. “Around the bullet wound, there’s a crudely drawn cross in ash and blood.”

Presto filled a brief silence. “How was that Muslim cleric murdered? The one uptown, about a month ago?”

Burton gulped. With one question, he showed a possible connection. Burton didn’t care what anyone else thought of the detective. He admired the man.

Burton answered. “Gee, Dom, I’m not sure. It wasn’t our case. Why do you ask?”

“I recall something about a cleric being killed in grisly fashion,” Presto said. “If I am not mistaken, it was also on a religious holiday. Eid al-Adha, I believe.”

Presto plopped on the chestnut leather sofa. He pressed a button, and a leg support shot up. Now he was comfortable. When his mind raced, his body relaxed.

Sitting in his office, Burton shook his head. Someone else made the same connection. That was why they wanted Presto. If a serial killer was responsible, he was the guy to at least consult with.

“Listen, buddy, you may be on to something there. I don’t know. What I do know is the cardinal contacted the mayor, who called Commissioner Tipton. But our good mayor,” he slipped with a touch of sarcasm, “made other calls, starting with the Feds. It’s election year. The mayor wants to ensure politically that he’s done all he can. New York City does not elect weak mayors.”

Mayor Murray Golden was a staunch advocate of the NYPD, and the union enthusiastically endorsed him, but Jack Burton distrusted all politicians. It wasn’t that they were all necessarily corrupt or bad people as individuals. Rather, it was the bullshit they seemed to enjoy groveling in. The fake smiles, the hearty handshakes, the cross party mudslinging, the posing for photos with a bundled infant, and the constant panhandling for dollars. It was one giant act produced for their re-election.

“Uh huh,” the great detective volunteered. He didn’t care for politics either. Not just mayors, senators, and presidents, but even the political gamesmanship that we deal with in our everyday lives. Presto wanted to know something else. “Who’s heading the case, and who told you to call me?”

“Let’s just say I have good news and bad news,” Burton said coyly.

“I have an inkling I know the answers. And they’re inversed from my questions,” he said and laughed softly. He noticed a leftover platter of sugar cookies and grabbed one. “Lay it on me, Jack,” he said and stuffed the find into his mouth.

He had the decency to press mute until after he swallowed and chased it down with a beverage.

Jack also laughed. His friend was right again. “You’ll be most unhappy to hear that …”

“Woo,” Presto said mysteriously. “Let me guess. Deputy Chief Inspector Frank Danko is running the investigation.”

“Lucky guess,” Jack joked.

Ever since Danko volunteered security time to the mayor’s campaign, he coincidently received a promotion and landed a preponderance of noteworthy assignments. That meant press coverage.

Ambitious and unrelenting, Inspector Danko did have his positive traits. Honest, he was also known to be a tireless worker. Like a marble block, Danko lived in a gym chiseling his sculpture. His shaved head and dark goatee made him an imposing figure in the interrogation room. His success at extracting information from suspects was legendary.

Both Burton and Presto felt Danko suffered from tunnel vision in his pursuit of a solution.

If the criminal was sloppy, Danko was your man. Matched against a diabolical mind, he was easily manipulated to erroneous conclusions. Several years ago, Presto suspected Danko apprehended the wrong man. Quietly, he kept digging and shortly thereafter caught the real killer in the act. Danko’s pride was not assuaged by the fact an innocent man was saved the ordeal of life in prison and a vicious killer was off the streets. That spark flamed resentment and blackened Presto’s reputation.

Presto reached for another cookie.
Not bad,
he thought. They hadn’t hardened much overnight. “Now, who besides you would embroil me into Danko’s case?” Waiting for the answer, Presto pressed mute and munched on the cookie.

“Glad you asked,” Burton announced eagerly. “After the mayor briefed Commissioner Tipton, he consulted directly with the deputy assistant director of the FBI who referred him to a man who was involved in criminal religious activities.” Burton presumed Presto would comment here, but there was only silence.

Presto decided the cookies only had a few hours of shelf life. Rather then let them perish to waste, he figured it was better to add the calories to his waist. Chewing, he listened.

Burton continued. “Well, the Fed turns out to be an old acquaintance of yours—Malcolm Bailey.” Burton stopped for an expected response. Nothing.

Burton continued. “Bailey tells the mayor that the NYPD has one of the finest detectives in the country, and if they were smart, they’d to put him in charge. The mayor responds that he has already done that. To which, Bailey says that he knows Dominick Presto personally, and whatever recommendations he made, the FBI would comply with.”

Burton stopped to laugh as he recounted the episode and listened for Presto to chime in, but there was only silence from the other end. He wondered if his delivery were off, because he thought it was funny and figured Presto would get a kick out of it.

Presto actually doubled over with one hand holding his gut, while the other dammed his mouth. Simultaneously laughing and eating was like urinating and running—two functions best left mutually exclusive.

He wiped his moist crumb-laden hand on his sweats. He looked at his thigh and rubbed the stain until it was almost invisible. Satisfied, he sat back and eyed the last two cookies. He reached and listened.

Determined to get a laugh from his friend, Burton pressed on. “So the mayor responds that he’s never heard of Dominick Presto, but he has the very accomplished and respected Frank Danko heading the investigation.” Burton stopped for a growled chuckle. “From what I’m told, Bailey’s response was, ‘Who the fuck is Frank Dunce-O? Sir, if you take this matter seriously, Dominick Presto must, at the very least, consult on this case.’”

Burton howled. He knew Presto must have enjoyed that. Still, he heard nothing. “Hey, Dominick. You there?”

Presto scrambled to get his oversized finger over the one-millimeter mute button. “Yeah,” he started and began choking on laughter and morsels of food.

Burton pounced. “Here I am wondering why you’re not talking, and your stuffing your face with food.” Burton paused and sarcastically added, “Gee, Dom, what are you eating for breakfast”

“Egg whites and seven-grain wheat toast,” Presto deadpanned.

Burton sniffed like he was besieged by a foul stench. “Bullshit.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“D
ON’T DO IT, SON,” Cleo Presto advised. “You can’t save the world. You may be a superhero to me, but down in the halls of justice, they treat you like a cartoon castoff.”

Presto tried again to feed her the sandwich he’d made for her. Thus far, her only bite was to gnash at him for agreeing to visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral. “Mom, are you going to eat or chew me to death?” He moved the food in a small circle in an effort to entice. “I have to get going,” he said with a hint of impatience.

“No you don’t,” she countered. Incapacitated, she still managed to look feisty. “We have plenty of money. You’ve proved yourself. You’ve saved lives. You …”

“Not now, Mom,” Dominick interrupted. His voice was serious. “Eat this.”

“I’m not hungry now,” she said coolly.

“Mom, you’re acting like a child. You know it’s not the money. I like being a detective, plain and simple. And,” he said slowly, “my service was requested by Mayor Golden.”

Presto saw his mother’s determined face falter. She liked the mayor.

A few years back some developers were trying to get their greedy mitts on the small neighborhood park. The nearby residents started a fuss and brought their complaints to City Hall. The park represented a small slice of nature in the concrete jungle. It was sacred land.

Cleo often sat there reading her mystery novels or just people watching. She chatted with friends and occasionally strangers. Sometimes she just sat there and thought about things. The place was special to her. When a petition started, she became energized.

The mayor took a position with the residents over the developers. It may have cost him some fundraising dollars, but it landed him plenty of votes. In fact, the press coverage was significant, and his poll numbers leaped.

Presto watched his mother’s face soften. He hid a smile.

“Really? Mayor Golden asked for you?” She grew excited. Her eyes gleamed, dimples widened, and jaw jutted. “I told you the mayor was a smart man.”

“Well, that may be,” he said coolly, “but he was advised by Malcolm Bailey, an FBI agent I know. From what I understand, the mayor had never heard of me.”

“Don’t be so skeptical,” she reasoned. “He made the right decision.”

Presto shrugged at her way of seeing things but decided not to reply.

She suddenly straightened up in bed, like a bedbug bit her in the ass. “Here, give me that sandwich.”

Presto watched in shock as his mother wolfed the meal down. He’d never seen his mother eat with such gusto before. That was more his specialty.

She started to speak, but the last piece of food caught, and she gagged.

“What has gotten in to you, Mom?”

She looked up. Her face was red, and her eyes watery. She swallowed a final time. “Now go. Be off. Stop dallying around. The mayor needs you.”

CHAPTER SIX

“M
AYOR GOLDEN MADE THE request to my precinct commander, Jack Burton. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes,” assured Presto dutifully.

“Me either,” snapped Frank Danko. “You might crush my steel tips,” he snickered as he pointed to his shiny black shoes.

Most of the assembled crowd in the priest’s chapel laughed. The exception was a priest, whose face twisted in disapproval.

Despite the purpose of his visit, Presto felt good when he walked through the grand cathedral. In an odd way, he lived for moments like these.

Danko’s glare and snide comment doused his positive spirit. Humbly, he asked, “Frank, may we speak alone for a moment?”

Danko’s bushy eyebrows drew together like two furry caterpillars colliding. He appeared prepared to cast another barb but gruffly replied, “Let’s step outside.”

Presto led the way outside the chapel, which due to its proximity to the sacristy was currently being used for the investigation.

As soon as Danko shut the door, he grumbled, “What?”

Presto thought about what he was going to say, while his cab had crawled uptown. Presto volunteered a half-hearted smile. Danko didn’t reciprocate, his expression as grim as the last man on a long line at the welfare office.

“Frank, I’ll leave if you want me to,” Presto started. “You’re running the investigation; it’s your call.”

“This I know,” Danko assured. “Go on.”

“The mayor called the Feds. He told them you were in charge, but the guy he spoke to happens to be the only agent I really know. Years ago, we met on a case. Anyway, he mentioned my name to the mayor. Thus, I am only following orders. I’ll be happy to follow your orders and go back home. I was on vacation, Frank.”

“What purpose would you serve?” Some of the edge dissipated from Danko’s tone.

“Merely to consult. I was asked to make an assessment for the Feds. I’m not sure what their role is at this juncture. You can report back to the Feds if you like. If you want me to stay, I’ll help in any way I can. We’re all on the same team.”

He stared at Presto, but the glare was partially gone, except for dim reflection off Danko’s shiny scalp.

“Are we? I respect your abilities. Your record speaks for itself, but you already sandbagged me once. You may have been right, but there’s protocol. I was running the case. You could have worked your theories through me. You let me take the fall. You grabbed the glory. I was the goat.”

Presto understood, although he did not completely agree. Danko leaped at the obvious and was not receptive to other opinions, especially Presto’s. But this was not the time to air his feelings.

“I apologize for how things turned out,” he supplicated. “My intentions were not as they may be perceived. I think,” he said feigning indifference, “that if you give me a second chance, we can work successfully together on at least a professional level. I will humbly accept otherwise if you feel differently.”

Danko paused to deliberate. He spent an unusual amount of time nodding, grimacing, and scratching at his hairless head. He didn’t really want Presto around. He wanted this case to himself. That could change if the Feds get involved.

“Here’s the deal,” Danko finally said. “Attend my briefing. Make your report to the Feds. If you have any alternative opinions, theories, or whatever, here’s the format I want you to follow. We will work as a team, but you’re the player, and I’m the coach. That means you do as I say. If you have any input or criticism, arrange a meeting with me before you disseminate those thoughts elsewhere. And, if I see you acting independently and outside the scope I outlined, I will dismiss you from the case.” Danko stopped to pause and posture. “But if you can abide by my guidelines, I would welcome someone of your caliber.”

Presto was elated. It had been years since they last spoke, although he had since conjured imaginary conversations. Usually, the outcomes faired worse. Here was a chance to thaw some cold shoulders.

“Thanks for the opportunity, Frank,” Presto gushed. I won’t let you down, coach,” he said with jock-like flair. “Speaking of which, did you see the Mets get bombed last night?”

Danko grounded the levity Presto thought he’d gained. “I’m letting you in for your brain, Dom, not because we’re
paisans
. Let’s head back inside.”