Holy Terror (18 page)

As he carried her to the door, Sidney kissed his fingertips and touched them to her forehead, and there were tears twinkling in his eyes.

Not long after midnight, they heard Sebastian gagging and retching in the bathroom.

‘Oh, God,' he was moaning. ‘Never again. Never!'

Sidney listened for a while and then turned over in bed. ‘Reece's Pieces,' he said, in satisfaction. ‘I said that I could cure him.'

On their way uptown, Sidney said to Conor, ‘I want you to try a little exercise now. When you give the taxi driver his money, stroke the inside of his wrist with your middle finger, and say, “Haven't you taken me here before?”

‘Look into his eyes, but focus on a point about three feet behind him. Then say, “You must be very comfortable in this taxi. Very relaxed. You're so comfortable you don't care about anything. You don't even care that I'm not going to give you a tip.”'

‘I'm not sure I can do that,' said Conor.

‘You don't know unless you try.'

The taxi pulled up outside the side entrance to Temple Emanu-El, the vast Turkish-Italianate synagogue on East 65th Street. ‘This is it, gents,' said the taxi driver, in a voice thick with phlegm. He was a squat little hunchbacked man with heavy-rimmed glasses and a prickly gray mustache. His license said his name was Chaim Reeven Weintrop. Conor reached forward and handed him a $10 bill. As he did so, he lightly touched the man's wrist and the palm of his hand.

‘Haven't you taken me here before?'

‘Say what?'

‘I said, haven't you taken me here before?'

‘Maybe I did. Who knows?'

‘You look very comfortable in this taxi. Very comfortable.'

‘Comfortable? Are you kidding me? The seat adjuster's broke. I have to sit up straight all the time just to see over the dash. You know what a coccyx is? Yeah? Well, you wouldn't want to trade coccyxes with me, I can tell you.'

‘So you're not comfortable?'

‘Am I hell comfortable. I'm driving around here like a frog sitting down the bottom of a well.'

Conor turned to Sidney for help; but all Sidney could so was smile and shake his head and say, ‘Don't forget to tip him.'

They climbed out of the taxi into the roasting mid-morning heat. ‘So what did I do wrong?' asked Conor.

‘You lost confidence in what you were doing because he didn't immediately give you the answers you were looking for. You let him steer the conversation whereas it should have been you who was doing the steering. You should have surprised him, distracted him. It doesn't matter how.'

They climbed the steps between the synagogue's limestone pillars. ‘So what would you have done?' asked Conor.

‘Well … since he wasn't comfortable in his taxi, I would have put him in mind of someplace where he usually
was
comfortable. I would have said, “I bet you can't wait to go home … I bet you have a
comfortable chair at home where you can ease your back … how would you like to go home sooner and sit in that comfortable chair?”'

‘I don't know. I don't think I've got what it takes to do that kind of thing just yet.'

‘It takes confidence, Conor, and you've got plenty of that. All you have to do is keep on practicing, every opportunity you get.'

They walked into the huge, vaulted synagogue. There was a rustling hush in here, as tourists wandered around, their sneakers squeaking on the floors, and men knelt and mumbled prayers, their heads covered with
talysim
. The light was dim, and diffused, with dust twinkling in the air, and the limestone walls gave the synagogue a coolness and a feeling of spiritual refreshment. Even though Conor was a Catholic he felt that God was here. Temple Emanu-El was the largest Reform Jewish place of worship in North America. Two and a half thousand people could come here to pray, although Conor and Sidney had come here looking for another kind of salvation.

They couldn't miss Davina Gambit. She was standing in the far left-hand comer in a bright yellow suit and a hat that looked like a monstrous daffodil. She was a tall woman, a tanned, gleaming blonde of 48, with a pouting red mouth and eyes that had the wind-tunnel look of somebody who has had all their wrinkles erased by cosmetic surgery; and probably more than once.

Next to her was her lawyer, David Dempsky, a small man with thick black curly hair and a face like an unhappy lemur, with dark-ringed eyes and a
pointy nose. He was wearing a dark three-piece suit and a black yarmulke.

Conor approached them cautiously, looking right and left, with Sidney following close behind. He made a quick check of the tourists and worshipers in the immediate vicinity, but it looked as if all of them were genuine.

‘Ms Gambit?' he said, holding out his hand. ‘I'm Conor O'Neil.'

Davina Gambit held out a yellow-gloved hand. Conor didn't try the handshake induction on her. He didn't dare.

‘Who's this character?' asked David Dempsky, nodding tersely toward Sidney.

‘He's a friend, that's all. He's totally neutral. You don't have to know who he is.'

‘So why did you want to meet here, of all places?'

‘Because it's the house of God, that's why, and I wanted to make sure that you honored your word. No wires, that's what you promised. No cops, no nasty surprises.'

David Dempsky looked around, as if he half expected to see God watching him from one of the balconies. ‘You stole my client's property and you're talking about honor?'

‘I didn't steal your client's property.'

‘Are you trying to be funny here? You sent me copies of three of her private letters.'

‘Not me, Mr Dempsky.'

‘Not you? What do you mean, not you? What are you trying to do, screw her for even more money? She's given you two and a half million, for God's sake—' He ducked his head down and said, ‘Forgive
me, Lord.' Then, ‘She just can't afford any more.'

If you were trying to bankrupt me, Mr O'Neil,' said Davina, in a strong Estonian accent, ‘then believe me, you have succeeded.'

‘You've already sent me the money?' asked Conor, in bewilderment.

‘Transferred it yesterday afternoon, as per your lawyer's instructions. I hope you're satisfied.'

‘Ms Gambit, I didn't take your money, and if my lawyer accepted it then he was certainly acting without my authority. I didn't take your letters, even though the police and the media are convinced that I did. However, I have some idea who
might
have taken them, and the reason I asked you to meet me here today was to see if you could help me to locate them.'

David Dempsky shook his head from side to side. ‘I don't know about this. What can I say? I talked to Lieutenant Slyman just yesterday afternoon and he said that he's one hundred per cent convinced that you're the perpetrator.'

Davina Gambit said, ‘If it wasn't you who took my papers, Mr O'Neil, then who was it? Please, I beg you! I have to get those letters back, or else I really
will
be ruined! My reputation, my alimony payments, everything!'

‘Davina – will you please try to keep your mouth closed?' David Dempsky demanded. ‘We still don't have any evidence that Mr O'Neil here isn't playing some kind of double bluff.'

‘But he has such an honest face!'

‘An honest face? John Gotti has an honest face!'

‘It's ridiculous!' Davina Gambit suddenly sobbed,
with tears glittering in her eyes, ‘They are only love letters!'

‘Love letters, and that's all?' Conor asked her.

‘Maybe a little more than love letters. Some of them contain other things … wild things, fanciful things. Things I should never have done. Things I should never have written about, anyway.'

‘Davina, for God's sake will you shut your trap?' David Dempsky protested. Then, ‘Forgive me, Lord.'

Conor said, ‘When the perpetrator called you up and made his demand, did you tape-record that conversation?'

‘The perpetrator? What the hell are you talking about?
You
were the perpetrator!'

‘Mr Dempsky, I was not. And I really need to know if you made a tape recording.'

David Dempsky sniffed and twitched. ‘Tape? No, no tape.'

‘You mean to say you don't normally record conversations with your callers?'

‘Not in this case, no.'

‘But you're a very good lawyer, aren't you?' Sidney put in.

‘Yes, I like to think so.'

‘And you work for Litwak & Dempsky?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you represent Ms Davina Gambit personally?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you always make sure that you protect her best interests?'

‘Yes.'

‘Which makes you feel quite comfortable?'

‘Yes.'

‘In fact it makes you very comfortable. Very comfortable indeed. You don't have to worry about anything I'm saying because you're still in control of everything that matters. You're very comfortably in control. Your mind will act as your secretary, taking care of all the minor details.'

‘Yes.'

‘So after the man called, asking for money for Ms Gambit's letters, where did you put the tape? Did you file it? Did you put it in your desk? Did you give it to one of your assistants?'

‘What's going on here?' asked Davina Gambit, in a forced whisper. ‘What are you doing to him?'

‘Ssh,' said Conor. ‘Let him finish.'

‘I put the tape into my deshk drawer,' said David Dempsky. His voice was wet and blurry, as if he had just had a local anesthetic at the dentist. ‘My middle deshk drawer, and locked it.'

‘You locked it?'

‘Yesh.'

‘Is it still there?'

‘Yesh.'

‘In that case I want you to go back to your office with Ms Gambit and take the tape out of your drawer. I want you to give it to Ms Gambit, that's all you have to do. Then I want you to sit at your desk and stay there and write out “Some say the world will end in fire … some say in ice”, over and over. After a while the phone will ring and you will hear my voice. I will count to five and you will then be fully awake. You will remember nothing about the tape
whatsoever. You will remember nothing about coming here to the synagogue.'

‘Are you
hypnotizing
him?' asked Davina Gambit. ‘My God!'

Sidney smiled. ‘We're just encouraging him to be a little more co-operative, that's all.'

‘Ms Gambit, will you go back to his office with him and collect the tape?' asked Conor. He took hold of her hand, grasping it firmly at first and then slowly and provocatively letting go, in the way that Sidney had shown him. ‘Meet us in the entrance lobby, by the news-stand.'

He looked into her eyes, except that he focused on the pillar just behind her. ‘You know that this is the best thing to do. You can trust us completely.'

Davina Gambit frowned at him. ‘All right,' she said. Then, with much less confidence, ‘All right.'

She kept on blinking as if she couldn't decide where she was or what she was doing. She took hold of David Dempsky's hand and the two of them walked off together toward the temple's Fifth Avenue entrance. Her yellow high heels clicked and clattered on the floor like a young filly trying to negotiate a slippery ramp up to the horsebox.

Sidney took off his glasses and held them up to the light. ‘I really must clean these. Thumbprints. You had her in a trance. A light trance, admittedly, but she was extremely receptive. She was looking for somebody to tell her what to do next; with any luck she'll do what you suggested. Now – let's get down to Litwak & Dempsky and see if that luck holds out.'

* * *

They loitered around the lobby of the American Legal Building for over twenty minutes, trying not to look conspicuous. This wasn't easy, because the lobby was a vast marble-clad atrium that went up three floors, with over a third of an acre of floorspace, and splashing fountains and elevators continually sliding up and down its sides.

Two security guards in brown uniforms came out of the elevators and walked around the atrium for a while. Conor recognized one of them as John Shaughnessy, a detective who had been retired from Conor's squad after a shooting incident, and lifted his newspaper higher in case he recognized him.

The elevator doors opened again and Davina Gambit emerged, her high heels clickety-clacking. She came straight over to Conor and thrust a tape cassette at him as if she were returning it to the store because it was faulty. ‘Here,' she said, her accent thick, very back-of-the-throat.

‘Thank you, Ms Gambit, you don't know much I appreciate this.'

‘I don't care whether you appreciate it or not. You just make sure that you get my letters back.'

‘I'll do what I can. But listen … whatever you do, don't pay out any more money to anybody until you hear from me.'

‘And supposing they threaten to send my letters to my ex-husband? Or the media, even? What do I do then?'

‘Call this number. Talk to my girlfriend. She knows how to get in touch with me.'

‘You really think I can trust you?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Conor. ‘You can trust me.'

‘You give me a strange feeling, you know, like I've known you for a long time.'

Maybe it was the lighting in the atrium but Conor suddenly saw her in a different way. Underneath all the foundation and the blusher, she had a strong, plain, well–structured face. He saw her for what she was: an Eastern European woman of no particular background who had determined to make herself into a wealthy New York socialite.

Conor said, ‘You won't remember that you gave me this tape.'

‘Oh, yes I will. You think that you can hypnotize me, too? Well – maybe you can – but not in the way that your friend can do it. A different way.'