Myth Man (14 page)

When the waiter arrived, it was not with the same smile he had initially greeted them with a few hours earlier. Bailey asked for one final round, a Jameson and a root beer, both on the rocks.

Bailey looked back at Presto. His eyes no longer sparkled, but instead receded to a watery depth in his sockets as the booze finally took control.

The waiter returned. Along with the drinks, he left the bill.

Bailey seized his drink, stared into the contents, smiled, and sipped. His eyes closed for a few seconds, while the satisfied grin returned. “This Copper Scroll has some lore to it. The scroll is more than two thousand years old and tells of hidden locations where gold, silver, gems, manuscripts, and other desired items were squirreled away. There were sixty-four locations where stuff was dispersed, including some items, apparently, from King Herod’s Temple. Attempts have been made to find these locations without much success. The stone crate has fueled much speculation, because of the difficulty it took to transport and hide it within the river. It was hidden for a reason. If it were not for humans messing with that river, this thing would never have been found.” Out of breath, Bailey remedied the respite with a slug from his glass.

Presto filled the void. “Wow.”

“Amazing, huh?” Bailey slurred. “If all goes well, this thing should arrive in the city in the next several months.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

D
ETECTIVE DANKO SAT IN his office and waited. He tried forming facial impressions—happy, accommodating, helpful, indifferent, but each attempt withered back to the grim expression he’d carried the past few days.

Danko got up at four o’clock and set out for his morning jog. Some people needed music to motivate their fitness but not him. He found peace through exertion, and with each galloping step and breath, his mind and body felt uncluttered and free. This morning it felt like a chore. Sluggish, he pushed himself thinking he’d find his mind and body’s rhythm, but his crescendo never created that harmony.

The shower had not refreshed, and his egg whites and protein shake did not fill. Despite the rejection of his wife’s affections at bedtime, she was up to hand him his uniform, fully pressed. His wife had covered for his lethargic scowls, telling the children that Daddy was sick. He loved her for trying and told her so as he left their apartment. Sore, his wounded pride needed time to heal.

Every time there’d been a big case, someone else was there to steal the glory. He knew the stigma, although he never actually heard anyone voice it until Spencer Hoole brazenly attributed his ascent strictly as political patronage. The words had stung, but he knew the best revenge was success, and now that option was all but likely muted as the blue shaded tie he now wore.

This case could have made him. This was big. Now the chance for glory was gone to the greedy hands of the FBI, assisted by Dominick Presto, no less.

What irked him was that he had no doubt the killer would soon be caught. They had a general sense of his pattern, locations, and dates. There were the clues he intentionally left and others he had not, such as carpet threads, hair samples, and other goodies forensics had found consistently through three crime scenes.

A knock from the door froze his face in midmetamorphosis. His cocoon cracked, and instead of something beautiful, his visage gave birth to something bitter.

A large shadow was visible through the frosted glass that outlined his door. Presto, no doubt. “Come in,” Danko grunted.

The door opened, and Dominick Presto sidestepped in, shutting the door behind him. Danko watched Presto put his hands in his baggy tan trousers and then look at him, eyes kind and warm.

“Frank,” Presto said demurely, “may I?” he said motioning to an empty chair.

Danko obliged with a nod of his head, and Presto slowly guided his rear downward. He adjusted his aged sport jacket, ran his hands across his white button-down shirt, and noted a yellow stain. He liked his eggs with a runny yolk.

Both men looked at each other for several seconds. Danko blinked. “Welcome back, Detective.”

Presto noted Danko’s frayed look. “Thanks, Frank …”

“I want to apologize for initially presuming your guilt. If it means anything, after reflection, I didn’t believe the charges.”

Presto waved his beefy hand through the air. “There’s no need.”

Danko shrugged. “I’m happy your back, just not with the extra luggage. We don’t need the FBI, Dom.”

“That may be,” Presto said agreeably.

“Yeah,” Danko huffed.

From outside they heard voices. A series of rhythmic knocks came from the door sounding like a snare drum. Presto glanced at Danko, who gritted his teeth.

“Enter,” Danko called out.

A female entered.
This was not just any woman,
both Danko and Presto thought. She was stunning. Brown, lightly curled hair fell above her shoulders and obscured most of her forehead. Her skin was like skim milk, pale and unblemished. Her face featured dimples, high cheekbones, purposeful lips, and eyes that seemed excessively large with her slender features. Her dark conservative suit did little to hide her sensuality. This was someone who spent time at a gym, Danko knew. She stood at five six. Presto guessed she weighed no more than one hundred and ten pounds and was no older than thirty.

Coming behind her, like a quarterback following the cheerleader, was a strapping guy in suspenders. His white shirt clung to his buff physique, which impressed Danko. His face had a tough and beguiling edge that made him alluring to women who liked their men a little dangerous. His hair was dark and a little longer than the standard FBI cut.

Presto thought they were going to introduce themselves as Ken and Barbie, but instead the woman introduced them as, “Agent Carter Donavan,” she said as she gestured toward her partner. “I’m Special Agent Lorraine Ridgewood,” she added and snapped a business card on Danko’s desk.

Danko feigned a welcome smile. “Frank Danko,” he said and offered a hand. When Agent Ridgewood took it, he added, “We’re happy for your assistance.”

Agent Donavan snorted. “You sound thrilled,” he said in a strong, sarcastic Boston accent. “Surprised you didn’t have a red carpet rolled out to lead us to your office.”

Danko’s cheek bulged. “You must excuse me. I caught a tough cold from my kids and took some stuff that has me wiped out,” Danko lied and hated it.

“Really,” Donavan scoffed. “Sorry, when I was at the mayor’s office, I got a strong impression from this chap Spencer Hoole that you lobbied to keep us off
your
case. He caged it well. I think one of the telling quotes he attributed to you was, ‘I don’t want those assholes fucking with my case.’”

Under his breath, Danko cursed Hoole. His face, again, revealed his thoughts. He muttered something and then found his voice. “No good law enforcement official thinks he needs help. I thought we were making sufficient progress.”

Agent Ridgewood went to speak, but her partner drowned her out. “Maybe your superiors don’t see you as such a
good law enforcement official
.”

“That’s enough,” snapped agent Ridgewood. She shot her partner a look of disapproval. “It’s these interagency squabbles that are partially responsible for not preventing the tragedy on September 11. Like it or not, we’re all on the same team. We have a job to do, and we’re not going to fail. Let’s get down to business.” She flashed an apologetic smile for Danko’s benefit.

For some reason Agent Ridgewood reminded Presto of a ruby-throated hummingbird he saw as a child. Majestic and small, the bird looked strong and fierce, in control of its airspace.

“Thank you,’ Danko replied earnestly. “I’m here to cooperate.”

“Super,” Agent Donavan saluted. “Where are the donuts and coffee?” He looked from Danko to Presto. “He looks like he could use a donut,” he said, and gestured to Presto. “Hey, Danko, before you bring us up to speed, how about rustling up some cop cuisine?”

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Y
OU LIKE HER,” CLEO Presto probed as she prepared the dining room table.

Presto growled, not from the mélange of ziti and garlic bread that wafted from the kitchen but because of her over inquisitive nature. Now that she was back on her feet, there was no escaping his mother’s inquiries.

“A mother knows these things.” She looked into his eyes but gleaned little. He didn’t twitch. He was better at this game than the shaken Danko.

His mother never nitpicked his lack of personal life. Now she was digging with a pickaxe. The last time she asked him about a girl was before his high school junior prom. When he failed to find a date for the senior prom or twenty plus years later, she never broached the subject again.

He decided denial was not the best way to play this. “You’re too clever, Miss Love Detective,” he said earnestly. “All I said, when asked by you, was that she was the lead agent and composed herself well, especially in light of her partner’s obnoxious behavior. Then you asked what she looked like.”

Her index finger found him. “It was the way you said it.”

Presto spread his hands in submission. “I remarked that she was attractive, in a classy way.”

“And you said
she was nice
.”

Presto slapped his right hand to his forehead in mock surprise. “Ah, yes,” he exclaimed. “How could I have been so blatant with my secret desires? Like a code-breaker, you found the hidden message within my cloaked assessment.”

She wagged her finger again. “Don’t mess with a woman that’s preparing your food. You’re playing with me, right?”

“Mom, of course I’m playing,” he said with a dash of smarmy jest. He hoped to end her sudden interest in finding him a mate. “Just for the record, I have a keen eye, especially for the opposite sex. But let’s face it,’ he said earnestly, “I’m not that sexy.” For fun, he pouted his lips.

His mother opened her mouth and waved her arms in protest, but he cut her off. “Mom, it’s fine. I’m cool with it but also a realist. Women of her caliber date
GQ
men. Looks do matter; we both know that.”

She stifled a small sob. Her head dipped.

“Mom,” he beckoned.

She looked back to him.

“You have to stop whatever you’re up to. I’m happy with my life. I’m used to it, and always have enough on my plate, excuse the pun,” he said and slapped his gut with a laugh, “to nourish and satisfy me.”

She returned a soft smile of her own. He could tell she was disappointed, but there was too much spark and illumination to ever dim her for long. “Speaking of food on your plate, here you go, Buster.”

Placed on the table were a bowl of roasted potatoes, a plate of ziti, and a foot of toasted garlic bread on a wood cutting board. He dropped the napkin on his lap and salivated.

Cleo banged the floor three times with her cane.

That had been her signal to summon Mr. Stagnuts when she was bedridden. “If you ever need something while your son’s disposed,
knock three times on my ceiling if you want me
,” Mr. Stagnuts had sung to her. Today they were playing cards, and he told her to use the old signal when she was ready. Ms. Stagnuts had insisted the
signal never be performed in the living room. Her eyes notoriously watched every vibration of her prized chandelier.

Presto picked up his fork and began to eat as his mother wrapped up the leftovers. “Feels good to feel useful again,” she remarked wistfully. “All these years I took care of you,” she said nostalgically. “I was not used to the role reversal.”

Presto gorged a large pile of ziti, swallowed, and replied, “Neither was I. Sorry, but I hated doing that needle thing.”

“Me too,” she agreed unequivocally. “You’re squeamish, Son.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” he said defensively.

She grinned back. “You did fine.” Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, by the way. The Stagnuts have a niece that will be staying with them for a couple of weeks. She grew up in New Jersey but moved to California about twenty years ago. She’s wants to move back here,” she said with a gleam. “Arthur and Gina say she’s single and a real nice gal.”

“Mom,” he groaned. “Enough.”

Persistent, she continued, “The Stagnuts are old. They don’t have the energy to entertain her and specifically asked me if you could spend some time with her.”

This was his mother’s doing, no doubt. Why was everyone trying to set him up? The killer willed to frame him, and now his mother was trying to canvas and paint him a virtual relationship. Every action had a reason and motive. He wanted to press her when the buzzer rang from the front door.

“Oh, that must be them,” his mother exclaimed. She dried her hands and went to the door. “Arthur, Gina. Oh, do come in.” she welcomed. “I can use a hand. I baked a crumb apple pie and have vanilla ice cream for a topping,” she said and escorted the couple inside.

Based purely on appearance, some couples are perfectly suited for each other. The Stagnuts rolled in like male and female versions of the same DNA samples. The two of them always reminded Presto of a toy he’d received as a child. There was a plastic floatable boat, but the occupants were a family of egg-shaped figurines, known as Weebles. The jingle was, “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.” Built like barrels, The Stagnuts were the human equivalents of the Weebles.

They were both short and oval, like an inverted body builder. It appeared as if they were both jointless. Neither required a scarf, as their heads morphed into their bodies. Like they were svelte gym rats, they wore tight, eye-popping outfits. Gina was dressed in a hot pink, velour pantsuit, which accented her pearlike physique. Atop her head was a sun hat with a pink bow above the brim.

Arthur waddled in with blue and white striped linen pants that were so loose it was hard to discern he was bipedal. His shirt was silk but a louder shade of blue than his pants. An unlit pipe hung from his lips. Perched on his pudgy nose were thick black-framed glasses with lenses that looked thick enough to have been made from hockey Plexiglas. He also had a black top hat that, along with the dangling pipe, made Arthur Stagnuts look like a pimp snowman. Then Presto looked at Gina in her tight pink velour getup and thought she could have been Arthur’s … 
Never mind
.

Gina looked to Presto. “Did your mother tell you that our niece Camille is visiting?” Her voice sounded like a cat in heat, shrill and desperate.

A few choice answers flashed through his head, but Presto instead said, “As a matter of fact, she did. I’d be delighted to spend time with her.” He smiled broadly and turned to ensure his mother noticed. She appeared surprised.
Good
. If you can’t beat them, then join them … at least for the moment.

Arthur, also a connoisseur of food, looked at Presto’s depleted plate. “Smells good in
here
,” he said with a wink.

Arthur was infamous for the clandestine tactics used to dispose of his wife’s meals. He used their complicit, and accommodating, dog Skippy on the passable meals. On those not fit for a dog, he used napkins to conceal a large portion and either stuffed it down the garbage pail or flushed it in the toilet. Sometimes those methods were not possible. His wife constantly picked on his clumsiness, not knowing that most of his accidents were staged and usually involved the loss of a home-cooked meal.

Arthur turned toward Cleo. “You told him about Camille’s … ways,” he said awkwardly.

Presto eyes widened as he watched his mom, who suddenly looked guilty. “I did not get the chance. I just mentioned her and then you arrived,” she said.

“Conveniently after she gave her three-knock signal,” Presto noted.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Gina chimed off key. “She’s sweet.”

Her husband snorted. “Honey, I would hardly classify her as your regular girl.”

Gina’s right hand went to what would be her hip, and her side jutted out. “Arthur, you stodgy old troll,” she said sternly, which elicited a wince from her husband. “She’s a free thinker, just a little antiestablishment.”

“It’s one thing to boycott some company because they’re …,” thinking, Arthur waved his hands around trying to conjure his thought, “chopping down eucalyptuses trees for cough drops and thus jeopardizing the existence of our cute friend the koala bear. But,” he asserted, “it is quite another to cheer whoever is responsible for these brutal religious slayings.”

Gina snorted. “I could smack you. That is not what she said.”

Arthur smacked his hands together. “I think that’s enough for now, honey. Let’s get going.” He picked up the food Cleo Presto left on the table and went for the door.”

“Just one minute,” his wife squealed. “You’re not getting the last word,” she challenged with an icy stare. Then she looked to Presto. “Don’t listen to him. Camille knows this killer is a beast but has no love for organized religion, being a self-proclaimed atheist.”

In the background, Presto watched Arthur shake his head. Presto stuck with the script. “I look forward to meeting her, Mrs. Stagnuts. She sounds lovely,” he said as sincerely as possible.