Book of Shadows (14 page)

He lifted his margarita. “To money.”

He and Alison looked at each other over their glasses and Marisa, eyes on them, brought her drink to her mouth, then placed it down untouched.

Success, as Marisa had learned, was an aphrodisiac. Robert, growing increasingly successful each day, was attracting attention from more and more women, something Marisa wasn’t sure she could handle. Without wanting to relive the particulars she was sure he’d been unfaithful to her on at least two occasions—and this when he was a failure. Success wouldn’t bring a sudden rush toward celibacy on Robert’s part; success for Robert promised additional problems for Marisa.

Jack Lyle had said to destroy the
Book of Shadows
and maybe they could all survive. Would destroying it save the remaining three of them, or was it now too late?

On returning to New York from England, Robert had asked Nat to use his connections in the antique world and learn what he could about the book. A couple of rare-book dealers confirmed that it was an authentic
Book of Shadows,
the property of witches or believers in witchcraft, and worth anywhere from a few hundred dollars to a few thousand. Robert refused to sell it even when one dealer telephoned Nat several times in an attempt to buy the book for an anonymous private collector.

The collector had finally gone as high as fifty-thousand dollars. Robert confessed to an odd and unexplained affinity for the book and turned down the collector’s offer. It was then that Marisa noticed the changes in Robert, the man and the writer.

He became more arrogant and outspoken, occasionally controlling it with a coldness that was both frightening and perversely attractive. He wrote better and began making huge amounts of money. He now considered the
Book of Shadows
his good luck charm. Nothing on earth would make him part with it.

Robert had even used Larry to contact more dealers recommended by Nat. One dealer said the book was wrapped in human skin and claimed he could get Robert $100,000 for it from a California museum. Again Robert also heard from private collectors. He could name his own price in cash.

But by then Robert’s life had begun to change. He had tasted success and there wasn’t a chance of his parting with the book. His change from loser to winner dated from the appearance of the
Book of Shadows
in his life; he felt he’d always be a winner so long as he possessed the book.

Robert was beginning to make millions, and on the verge of becoming world famous, achievements Marisa might once have chalked up to a change of luck and the rapacious instincts of Anya, the reptilian-looking Russian. But that was before the violent deaths of three people they knew. And the severed hand found in New Jersey. And the dead, mutilated Puerto Ricans found at the base of an oak tree in Central Park.

And the presence of the mysterious fat boy.

Marisa watched Alison Sales glance at her own flawless complexion in a compact mirror, snap the compact shut, and drop it into a costly Gucci purse.

“Time to scoot,” said Alison standing up. “No rest for the weary. Got to get cracking on that schedule. I’ll have it in your hands no later than noon tomorrow.”

Robert stood up, tossed his napkin on the table and kissed Alison lightly on the cheek. Marisa noticed the smeared lipstick on the napkin matched the shade worn by Alison Sales.

Male heads followed Alison as she found a path between the tables.

“Cute,” said Marisa, also staring at her.

Robert smoothed his napkin over his lap. “Now why do I get the feeling you don’t really mean that?”

“Talented, too, I bet.”

“How would you know?”

“Suppose you tell me. Is she?”

Robert opened a menu. “Is she what?”

“Talented.”

“Why don’t you tell me what a bitchy day you had, so we can get that out of the way and order dinner?”

Marisa held her glass of white wine up to the light. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to California again?”

“Christ, twelve dollars for a shrimp cocktail. It slipped my mind, Marisa. It slipped my mind.”

Marisa swallowed half of her wine and closed her eyes. “Throw away the book, Robert. Please. Before it’s too late.”

He tossed the menu on the table. “You know the answer to that. You and Jack Lyle. He—”

“He’s dead.”

Robert frowned.

“Killed himself,” said Marisa.

Robert shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised. The man was killing himself when we last saw him. It’s called boozing it up.”

“He used a gun. Remember what he said about the book, about the Druids? He said they’d kill to get it back. They’d burn us to death. And now Nat, Larry, and Jack Lyle are in their graves.”

Robert placed his empty margarita glass on the table. “Everybody’s got to be someplace. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that your friends the Druids are in New York. If they are, they’ll find it hell getting an apartment in Manhattan.”

Marisa reached for his hand. “Robert, Nat and Larry’s deaths were not accidents. They were murdered, I’m sure of it.”

He pulled his hand away, caught a waiter’s eye, and pointed to his empty glass. “Little Miss Crime Fighter. And I thought I was the one with the overactive imagination. Your friend Joe Bess called today.”

“You never told me.”

“I’m telling you now. I hung up on him. He mentioned Larry’s death and then he asked me if I was being followed and that is when I knew you and he had had a heart to heart. I told him to go forth and multiply, a polite way of saying fuck thyself, and I slammed down the phone.”

Suddenly he grabbed Marisa’s hand and squeezed it painfully. “Now you listen to me, Sarah Bernhardt, Keep your swarthy little friend out of my life, because if he calls me again—”

“Robert, I’ll say this once: If you don’t let go of my hand, I’m going to pin yours to the table with this fork.”

Robert snorted. And released her. “I seem to recall your having made a similar threat in the past.”

“And carried it out.”

“And carried it out.” He rubbed his wrist.

Marisa said, “Bess didn’t tell me he’d spoken to you. He probably didn’t like your hanging up on him.”

“Tsk, tsk.”

“He was probably trying to help you.”
Or me,
she thought.

“Thanks,” said Robert, “but I’ve already got an agent, an accountant, and a Haitian maid, who, alas, doesn’t do windows.”

When the waiter had placed Robert’s drink on the table and left, Marisa said, “How long have you known Alison?”

Robert gulped half of his margarita, then began licking salt from the rim of the glass. “Know what your trouble is, lover? You’re hearing footsteps.”

“Meaning?”

“Sports expression. Refers to football players who get frightened easily. They imagine the opposition’s sneaking up behind them. They worry about it. The expression’s applied to the weak, the old, or the scared. Means you can’t cut it anymore.”

Marisa’s smile was frozen. “I’m not about to get sweaty palms or palpitations over Alison, ‘Our Lady of the Marked-Down Gucci.’ The game ain’t worth the candle.”

“Touché. I would like to get something straight between us. It concerns the book. I’m no different from anyone else on this planet. I want success, I want to be on top, and I’ll pay the price, no matter what it is. As far as I’m concerned, the
Book of Shadows …
well, let’s call it my talisman. I’m not
that
superstitious. Let’s just say I like having the book around, and the deaths of Nat, Larry, and Jack Lyle aren’t going to change anything. Let’s face it: They’re all dead, and nothing I do with the book is going to resurrect them. Assuming I found any credence in your rantings about the Druids, just who would I return the book to? I’m listening.”

Marisa pressed her lips together.

Robert said, “I thought so. There’s no one I can hand the book over to. Logic suggests I keep it and that you begin getting used to that fact.”

“Sieg heil.”

He shrugged. “That’s life in the big city. Let’s order.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I.” He touched her hand. “Let’s go back to your place for dessert.”

She went with him because she didn’t want to be alone. And in bed, even against her will, she responded to him with total abandon. Their lovemaking was frenzied, with Robert lifting her to peaks she had rarely touched in her life. Since he’d acquired the
Book of Shadows,
Robert had become even more forceful and skillful at sex. And somewhat more withdrawn, as though standing outside of himself and watching his performance with a careful eye.

On more detailed analysis, Marisa found Robert’s lovemaking to be drifting toward a subtle sadism. There were moments of pain, but then the ecstasy swept her up in a tidal wave of pleasure; only later did she question herself about some of the things Robert had done to her and forced her to do. Only later. Always later.

When she awoke, it was almost midnight and she was alone. He’d gone without waking her or saying goodbye. Half groggy with sleep she dialed his apartment.

A woman answered.

Marisa said, “Who’s this? Is Robert Seldes there?”

“You have the wrong number,” said the woman coolly and hung up.

Marisa, now completely awake, hung up and quickly dialed again. The phone rang and rang.

The woman had sounded like Alison Sales.

Robert’s phone continued to ring. And go unanswered.

Raymond appeared shortly before
9 P.M.

He drove a silver Mercedes slowly past the parked Chevrolet in which Joseph Bess and his partner Felix Plante had been sitting for over two hours. The Mercedes continued along the quiet Sutton Place street, cruising by the luxury co-op the two detectives had staked out.

In the Chevy, Bess remained slumped down in the driver’s seat, a hat covering most of his face. Reaching out he tapped Felix’s meaty thigh and was rewarded with a grunt from the burly black man.

Bess said, “Cautious bastard. He’ll circle the block a couple of times and when he thinks it’s cool, he’ll park, then go inside.”

“Kid’s with him,” said Felix. “Sittin’ in the front seat.”

“I know.”

Bess lifted the hat so that he could see the rearview mirror better. But his mind was on his daughter, Gina. Three years ago, when she was eight, a building worker in her school had taken her down to the boiler room and sexually abused her. He’d left the child there in the filth and darkness and that’s where Bess had found her hours later, cringing and trembling and unable to speak.

Joseph Bess had his own reasons for wanting to get the Raymonds of this world.

Felix shook his large head. “Dude do a thing like that to his own kid. You see all kinds of shit in this business, but there ain’t no way you’ll ever get used to it.”

Bess said, “Here he comes. The detective slid down in his seat until his head was level with the dashboard. Felix pulled a slice of cold pizza from the box on the seat between them and bit into it. Blacks were rarely suspected of being cops and Felix knew it. He could have hung out in front of the co-op door and chances are Raymond wouldn’t have suspected a thing. Joseph Bess’s white face was another matter.

“He’s gone,” said Felix, wiping grease from his chin with the palm of a thick hand.

“Third time around, it’s go.”

“Maybe. Raymond ain’t no chump. That sucker’s slicker than spit on ice.”

“Sooner or later, my man. Sooner or later we turn the key on his ass.”

But it wasn’t going to be that easy.

Princess Grace’s information had been incomplete.

The transvestite informant had given Bess the building address, but had been unable to learn the number of the apartment where Raymond and Fancy were to meet four wealthy men who’d agreed to pay a total of eight-thousand to make private films of themselves having sex with the beautiful child.

Nor did Princess Grace know the names of the four men.

Without the names and the apartment number, no judge would grant a search warrant. Bess and Felix would have to follow Raymond and Fancy into the building, then to the apartment and make an arrest there. Joseph Bess was going to lean on the four men until they helped him put Raymond away for a long time.

Felix reached up and shifted the rearview mirror. “Here he comes. Man’s got a fine set of wheels. Nice new Mercedes and ain’t no scratch on it.”

“Fancy’s got all the scars,” said Joseph Bess. “I want him, Felix. I want him bad.”

“Yeah. Stay loose. Let him park and get outta the car. We don’t move till he gets inside the building.”

Raymond’s Mercedes drew closer, its lights growing brighter in the darkness. It rolled slowly and silently past the detectives and toward the building. Joseph Bess held his breath.

The Mercedes didn’t stop.

Bess frowned.

And everything happened at once and in a split fraction of a second.

At the corner, the Mercedes’ tires shrieked as they suddenly spun rapidly against the asphalt, and Bess knew something had gone wrong, that Raymond had either been warned or had somehow sensed—

Bess grabbed for the ignition key, turned it over, and gunned the motor into action. Jerking the wheel, he pulled away from the curb and raced toward the Mercedes just as it rounded the corner and disappeared.

“Son of a bitch!” yelled Bess.

The Chevy turned the corner and Joseph Bess and Felix Plante panicked.

The light stabbed their eyes, filling the car, blinding them with the light of a million suns. Bess, sensing what had happened, turned the wheel as far left as he could and
hoped.
Jesus, all he could do was hope they didn’t die.

Raymond had been waiting for them.

He had made a U-turn and waited and when the pursuing car had come close he’d turned on his lights and blinded the detectives.

Joseph Bess’s Chevy jumped the curb, smashed into a fire hydrant, and sped across the sidewalk, continuing to hurtle forward until it crashed into a glass-enclosed lobby of a luxury apartment building.

A woman screamed.

The Mercedes sped forward, turned the corner, and disappeared.

I
NSIDE NATHAN SHIELDS’ APARTMENT
, Louie the Great Dane trotted across the carpeted living room and stopped at the front door. Lifting his huge head, he tilted it to the right and listened. Then his head snapped forward and his brown eyes bore into the door as if seeing the person who had just turned the key in one of the two locks.