Seven Ways to Die (31 page)

“Check the prints on it,” Cody said.

Δ

Cody was silent on the drive back to New York, mulling over the entire Androg scenario to date. It was nearly six when Stinelli dropped off Wolfsheim at his apartment, then, at his insistence, dropped Cody back at the Loft. “Knock off early. Get some sleep,” Stinelli advised.

“I’ll sleep after we stop this son of a bitch,” was Cody’s reply.

Stinelli grunted. That’s why he’d chosen this man to head TAZ.

Cody lost no time getting to Google.  He looked up “Clue Awards” and, pinpointing the date, quickly corroborated the suspicions that had been nagging at him for the last twenty-four hours.

Hamilton was in Philadelphia at the time of Jackson’s murder. If he had planned it in advance, he could have had his limo drop him off near the alley after the event, walk a few blocks to find him, tempt Jackson with the fine scotch, chat with him while the combination of coke and liquor produced its effects, press the Taser against the man’s chest until his heart failed, then walk to the waiting limo, and head back to New York as though nothing had happened.

How could he possibly know that Jackson was in that particular alley?
Even the homeless have habits,
Cody thought. And Hamilton was a master researcher.

But something was wrong with this theory. How could he still be so certain when there was an obvious problem with it?

The problem was Uncle Tony.

With growing dread, he
knew
the evidence was right in front of his eyes. The totem was subliminal and artfully designed so only Cody would begin to flash on it, which he did as the messages from his unconscious continued.

One after the other, he deciphered the subliminal signs—trying to figure out if each murder had either a distinctive male or female overtone:

Was it Victoria who had killed Handley, after giving him oral sex? 

Victoria could have killed Uncle Tony while Hamilton was busy in Philly. She hid in the ladies room until the time was right
because she was a lady
.

She would have gotten home just in time to greet Hamilton returning from the Awards.

Hamilton, who had just killed Jackson in the alley. Chivas was a man’s drink. It had taken a man’s strength to hold the former boxer still enough for the Taser to finish the drugs’ work. Cody could imagine the scene: a man in a tuxedo with his arm around a bum in the alley, the Taser concealed as it shocked the boxer to death.

Hamilton or Victoria could have killed Song, though women killers rarely use guns.

Whose turn was it next? Who was Number Five?

This entire theory was too preposterous to take seriously. It would leave Cody out on a limb that could fatally distract him from stopping Androg.
Or was it?
He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

Cody studied the calendar. He picked up the phone and dialed Wolf’s number. “I need you to do me a favor,” he said, “and do it personally, no questions asked.”

“Shoot,” replied Wolf.

“Get me Ward Hamilton’s medical records.”

“Why in the hell—?”

“—No questions asked,” Cody interrupted.

Wolf grunted. “You got it.”

“And Wolf… Whatever it takes. Do it.”

Tonight was Halloween, exactly one week since the killings started.

If seven was the magic number, there’d have to be three more deaths.

With a shaman’s certainty, Cody knew they were planned for tonight.

And that one of them was meant to be him.

40

Halloween Night

Jake Sallinger got out of the shower, careful to navigate his balance on the slippery porcelain that had, more than once, ushered him to a painful slip. 

As he reached for his towel, he contemplated with excitement the evening’s entertainment. Waiting for him at the Lotus Club would be the woman who described herself as a “strawberry blonde, green eyes, wicked smile” in the
Metro Magazine
personals ad. Who knows? Tonight might be his lucky night. It was certainly overdue. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gotten laid.

But something was off.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand to clear them from shower fog.

Where his towel should have been a manila envelope was propped on the rack.

More than puzzled, he reached for it without thinking, disturbing the white powder that covered the flap.

As his eyes automatically began to scan the first page, Jake found himself sneezing uncontrollably. He doubled over from the sneezing attack—just as the bathroom door pushed open.

Cynical laughter he’d recognize anywhere, then: “Thought you might appreciate it more by manual delivery,” Hamilton said.

But Sallinger had fainted from the effect of the mysterious powder. The last things the editor’s eyes saw were Hamilton’s clear plastic gloves and green surgical booties.

Δ

Careful not to slip on the wet floor, Hamilton dragged Sallinger’s naked body toward the bathtub. He lifted the still-breathing editor into the tub. Taking a deep breath to recover from the exertion, he grabbed his editor’s head with both hands—and slammed it repeatedly against the brass towel rack, until he was satisfied Sallinger was dead.

To be doubly certain, Hamilton took the man’s pulse, and nodded to himself when he found none.

Deftly, and quickly before rigor mortis set in, he arranged Sallinger in a sitting position.

Taking another calming breath, Hamilton reached for the wall telephone and dialed 9-1-1.

“You’d better send someone to 155 E. 49
^th
St. #3D,” he said to the operator. “The best crime article ever written has just been delivered to its former editor. Right on deadline.”

Before the operator could respond, Hamilton hung up and, as he headed for the service entrance, grinned at himself in the dining room mirror.

It was seven-thirty p.m. The wolves in the zoo were howling again. Hearing them, Hamilton thought about Detective Cody—and grinned.

Δ

Way south in Cody’s apartment, Charley was hearing them too. “I know, pal,” Cody said, as he emerged from the shower, “they’re calling us. And this time they mean business.”

Using his hunting knife, he went through the ritual movements of preparing a venison stew, chopping the cranberries in half the way Old Man had taught him. This was the hunter’s meal, the meal he’d first eaten on the Reservation so many years ago on the night before his walk-out. When the simmering was done, the fruit and vegetables crisp and the venison still rare, Cody carefully divided the savory mixture between his own and Charley’s bowls. “I need you for this one, old friend,” he said.

Charley, licking every drop of the stew from his bowl, greeted him with a grunted bark of acknowledgement.

Just as Cody took his last bite, his cell phone rang.

It was Amelie.
She heard the wolves too,
Cody thought. “Don’t even think of arguing,” she began. “I need to see you now.”

“I honestly can’t,” Cody said. “I’ve got a job to do.”

“If you want to see me again, ever,” Amelie said, a strange tone in her voice Cody couldn’t identify, “You will give me one hour. That’s all I’m asking.”

Cody looked at the time on his cell phone. It was seven forty-five. If Androg stayed true to form, nothing would happen until midnight. “One hour,” he said. “This better be important.”

“It is,” she said.

Instead of canteen, flint, matches, and blanket, he rummaged in his socks drawer, found his
ipetes,
the eagle feather he’d carried with him from adolescence. On this quest, it would suffice.

Δ

Somewhat against his better judgment, but somehow not wanting to over-analyze it either, Cody headed for Amelie’s apartment.
Trust your head,
a voice from the past was telling him.
Everything you have learned. The answers will be there.

As for Charley, “It’s on the way, after all,” he told his sidekick.

Charley’s look said he wasn’t quite buying it.

“I know, I know,” Cody responded to the shepherd’s baleful stare. “But she said it was important, and she’s a potential witness after all.”

He left Charley in the SUV. No sense in having them sniff each other out unnecessarily.

Δ

He heard the piano as he approached her apartment.
Something by Gershwin?
And she was good.

But the music had stopped abruptly and Amelie opened the door before he could lift his hand to knock. “I will help you prepare,” she said, as though he’d told her what he was about to do.

She led him toward the massage room. Her voice was businesslike. “Take your clothes off and get on the table.”

For a moment, Cody hesitated. Then he saw that she was doing the same—unbuttoning her blouse, zipping down her pants.

His eyebrows went up, partly because he was admiring her perfect athletic figure, partly because he was admiring the audacity of her invitation. “I thought you didn’t do this kind of massage,” he said, stupidly, as he unbuckled his belt and kicked off his loafers.

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it,” she said, impatiently reaching out to help him with his shirt buttons. “Just had to be the right man at the right time.”

She waited for him to be face down on the table before removing her bra and panties.

Turning his head to watch her, he was rebuked.

“Focus on your breathing,” she said. “It will loosen you up.”

The massage that followed redefined sensual. Her hands were strong and experienced and both relaxed and excited him to a point he’d never experienced before.

“Turn over,” she said, after kneading his legs, lower back, and shoulders.

Without a word he complied, and let her work her will on the front of his legs and abdomen, careful to keep the towel positioned in his midriff.

Although inevitably the towel betrayed him.

“Did I miss anything?” Amelie asked coyly.

“You missed the main attraction,” Cody responded. “And you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Her laugh only ignited the heat between them.

“Lose the towel,” she said, “and join me in the sauna.”

And he did.

Δ

She was in his lap facing him. He was inside her. They sat unmoving, staring deep into each other’s eyes.

Always look at the creature who looks at you,
he remembered.
The doorway to the truth is in the eyes. Listen.

 Finally, when she began to move, they moved together as though they had been moving together all their lives. They made love slowly and thoroughly, and Cody flashed back to that sweat house he entered as a young man before embarking on his walk-out.

It was nothing like this.

She reached up and undid his ponytail, so that his long hair fell down to envelop them both.

“How did you know I needed this?” he said.

She chuckled as she reached her third orgasm. “I could tell from the way you danced with me,” she said. “Now go out there and catch the bad guys. But do me one more favor.”

His eyebrows went up. “Another favor?”

“Come back,” she said, looking him again in the eyes.

Δ

The all-forgiving Charley by his side again, a fully-empowered Cody quickly drove the SUV down Fifth to E. 59
^th
Street, and was now parked across from Hamilton’s building, settled back to stake out the lobby which was the only way out of the structure.

A handful of residents left the building, the only one Cody recognized being the wealthy composer Paul Ketty, tall, full head of black hair, in the company of his two matching Corgis. The doorman’s smile at Ketty told the detective he treated him handsomely at holiday time.

It was ten-thirty. He’d been sitting here for over an hour—an hour he could have spent with Amelie in the sauna.

He used the time to reflect on the Androg case.
Trust your head…The answers will be there.
The only one he’d shared his theory with was Wolfsheim, who had reported back that Hamilton had been diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer two years ago.

“How did you find out?” Cody had asked.

“No questions asked, remember?” had been Wolfsheim’s response.

“How long does he have at this point?” asked Cody.

“Months at best, more likely weeks. And here’s something: He’s refused all treatment.”

In a radical departure from his customary procedure, he’d placed Wolfsheim in command for the night shift tonight.

Wolfie hadn’t said much about Cody’s hunch by way of approbation, but he hadn’t denied the possibilities as Cody outlined them either. “Watch your ass, Chief,” was all he said.

“Don’t worry about my ass,” he replied.

Δ

Freshened up from his visit to Jake Sallinger, Hamilton walked back out the double doors at eleven forty-five. Tonight he was not wearing his usual frumpy white suit. He was wearing a red devil’s costume and, indeed, smiled devilishly at the doorman as he stalked away into the night toward Fifth Avenue.

Cody noticed two other details.

Once Hamilton’s back was turned, the doorman flipped him the finger.

And the asshole was carrying, slung on his shoulder, what Cody recognized as a Flambeau crossbow case.

Cody realized Hamilton was heading northwest toward Central Park, the place that, on this one night, was filled with not only the extraordinary beasts of prey that populated Manhattan but also ordinary citizens acting out their fantasies that would, had they been real, have turned the metropolis into a nonstop nightmare.

Maintaining a safe distance, Cody “walked” his white German shepherd among the crazy-costumed Halloweeners making their way from one bar to another. He wondered where Hamilton’s consort Victoria was. Was Hamilton en route to a rendezvous with her? 

The detective knew he was facing his ultimate challenge, the very reason that had led him to become a cop and felt deep in his bones that it was his destiny had led him to this night.