Myth Man (16 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

M
YTH MAN WATCHED THE television with great interest. The FBI had flubbed again, and they were getting grilled before a Congressional oversight committee. This was great theater. Their misdeeds gave him encouragement and a crazy idea.

Thank no god for C-SPAN.

Myth Man enjoyed seeing the FBI director himself squirm in his seat as he tried to explain how FBI agents mistook a toga party in the woods as a white supremacist gathering, a gothic girl in chains as a prisoner for sacrifice, and firecrackers as incoming fire. The result was twelve dead college students.

Next up was some schlep named Agent Hawkins. The guy with the neatly trimmed beard and Brooks Brothers suit looked more like an accountant that miscalculated a tax return than the guy who was in charge of the unit responsible for the massacre.

Maybe the suit was flame-retardant, as Agent Hawkins appeared almost bored as the senators firebombed him with heated rhetoric. The man was unflappable. Myth Man was impressed.

He watched the blowhards go on for hours, and when it was over, he used a TiVo to watch it again and burned it on a DVD. It was more than entertainment. It was educational.

Myth Man peeled himself from the sticky couch and called his source.

“I need some information on the agents working my case.”

“Don’t bother,” the source responded. “I know everything the mayor does, and from what I understand, the Feds have a set date for when they’re off the case.”

The source breathed deeply, and his voice came over in a quiet hush. “Did you ever hear about that crate they found in Iraq?”

Myth Man shed a wicked grin. “You don’t say? Tell me more about that.”

When the call was over, Myth man returned to the TV and rewatched the hearing.

He took notes: the clothes, the accents, the mannerisms.

Then he began to practice.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

W
HEN PRESTO ARRIVED AND knocked on the chief deputy inspector’s door, a gruff bark told him to enter. As he waddled in, he stole a glance at Danko, who looked more like a suspect than the accredited, and now discredited, detective. Dark wedges underscored his distant eyes. His unkempt goatee was surrounded by a few days’ coarse growth. Slumped in his chair, it was the first time Presto ever saw the man not display the posture of a prison guard.

Presto was trying to conjure something to say but had no palpable words up his sleeve that could revitalize the man. “Good morning,” he offered.

“Yeah,’ Danko grumbled. “What’s so goddamn good about it?”

Pretso chose to tread carefully. This was not the same man he met a few months back at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. “You’re right. It’s Sunday and a holiday, and we’ve been pulled away from our loved ones.”

“Speak for yourself,” Danko said wearily. “My wife walked out with the kids yesterday. Went to her parents. Apparently, I’ve been testy and neglectful. Go fucking figure,” he said and turned a framed picture of his wife down to his desk.

Maybe to bond, or to shake some gloom from him, Presto nodded in sympathy. “I just found out last night that my mom’s got cancer. She’d been acting odd for a while, and she finally told me. So it is somewhat of a black Sunday. I’m sorry to hear that about your wife. I’m sure she’ll come to her senses.”

“Sorry to hear that Presto, and thanks, but I doubt it,” Danko said tersely. “She’ll leave me. Her parents never liked me to begin with. She’s from money. I’m not. They wanted a doctor, lawyer … a country club asshole for their girl. I can only imagine the influence they’re having.”

Danko was a wreck. They had a case to work, and the Feds would be here soon. He had to try and snap him out of his funk. “How long have you been married?”

“Thirteen good years,” he replied angrily.

Anger was better than despair. “So what does that tell you?” Not letting Danko reply, he said, “You’re wife obviously makes her own decisions. She defied her parents because she loved,”
oops
, “loves you. You need to be the person she knows. Frankly, Frank, you have not been yourself lately. We’ll get through this. I promise you.”

A small light flashed in Danko’s eyes. “Hey, thanks for listening and your kind thoughts.” The light in his eyes brightened further. “Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t have to work with these two agents. That … that guy,” Danko spat incredulously, “Carter Donavan, is an obnoxious clown. How the hell did the FBI ever hire him? He could never get away with that shit in NYPD, I’ll tell you that.” He still looked haggard, but he no longer sat like a limp noodle.

Presto agreed. He tried contacting Bailey to get some background on the agents, but he must have been busy with that Iraqi crate matter. “He’s unorthodox, to say the least.”

Danko flicked his wrist dismissively. “No, you’re unorthodox, Dom. He’s a complete dick.”

“I can’t disagree.”

This was going well, Presto hoped. The anger over his wife was fractured and displaced toward Agent Donavan. Presto was not sure how much that improved things, but at least his mind was not embattled with grief.

“You know what we need,” Danko said with a touch of enthusiasm, “some of that Presto magic.” He paused to smile gratuitously. “You were off to a hot start, but then you were set up by, presumably, our suspect. Now that you’re back, do you have any new ideas?”

Despite the discomfort of sitting in the puny office chair again, he never felt more comfortable in Danko’s presence. “Nothing noteworthy. I studied the files you gave me.”

“Not much there, huh?” Danko asked.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Presto answered with philosophical truthfulness, “but I’m doing a lot of thinking, trying to get inside our killer’s head.”

Danko’s eyes widened. “You’re one of those?”

Presto gave a sheepish grin. “No, not really. I just try and see their perspective, the why’s and how’s. I think I’m also desperate,” Presto said with a light chuckle.

“We all are,” Danko said and laughed too. “Oh well. At least we have the Feds to guide us,” he added sarcastically. “At the very least, Agent Ridgewood is something to look at.” His eyes dazzled. “Having her around somewhat compensates for having to deal with that jerk off. I feel bad for her.”

“So do I,” Presto agreed hastily.

A drumroll pounded across Danko’s door followed by muffled words. The anger returned to Danko’s gruff visage. Through pressed lips, he bid the agents to enter.

Agent Ridgewood walked in first. She wore a simple, light yellow dress, perfect for Palm Sunday. Her hair was now pulled back in a cloth twist. Agent Donavan followed dressed in faded blue jeans and a dark sport jacket over a white button-down. The top three shirt buttons were unfastened.

“Hello,” greeted Agent Ridgewood. She went to say more, but her partner interceded.

“Whoa, Grizzly Adams. What happened to you?”

Danko ground his teeth. “None of your business.”

“Donavan,” Ridgewood snapped.

Ignoring the warning, Donavan, smiled. “Ah, I get it. Did your wife throw your scruffy ass out?”

Presto’s head did a double shake. Danko’s sagged.

“Bingo, eh?” He looked to his partner. “Damn, I’m good.”

“You’re out of line,” she replied tactfully.

Ignoring her again, he looked to Danko and jerked his hand back and forth in front of his crotch. “I guess it really is Palm Sunday for you, buddy.”

“You’re not my buddy,” Danko cursed, his chin forward.

Donavan frowned. “Oh, no,” Donavan said, dripping with mock disappointment. “This could make the day a tad thorny. You do know that we’re partners for the day?”

“What?” Danko spat incredulously. “Partners?” His eyes shifted between the two agents.

“Yes,” hesitated Ridgewood. “I thought we might split up, have a cop and agent in two locations?”

“No, no, no,” sputtered Danko. “I’m not spending the day with him,” he shouted, his finger pointed at his smiling agitator.

“I love you too,” Donavan said and blew a kiss. This further riled Danko who slammed a fist down on his desk like an angry judge wishing to silence contempt.

“Let’s try this today and see how it works out,” she commanded hopefully.

Danko was not assuaged. “We know how it’ll work out. Disaster.”

Donavan clapped his hands together. “Give me a shot, brother. I’m really a nice guy. We might hit it off.”

“In a boxing ring, maybe,” Danko challenged, his punctured ego reinflating.

“Yeah, old timer? You better stick to thumb wrestling.”

“Boys,” shouted Ridgewood. Color filled her pale complexion. She looked to Danko. “I want you to report everything and anything he does wrong. I’m speaking to Bailey tonight.” Looking to her partner. “Don’t make my report look worse than it already is.”

Undaunted, Donavan said, “You got it, chief.”

Presto pitied Danko but was thankful the roles were not reversed.

“Hey, Danko,” Donavan goaded. “Is there any way you can steer some donuts our way before we set out, or do you have a favorite eatery you hit up? Free of charge, I assume.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“I
’M DRIVING,” AGENT RIDGEWOOD said as they exited the precinct.

Presto followed her to the black sedan he saw the two agents use a few days earlier. At first Presto was surprised to see the dark sedan conveniently nearby, but then he saw the fire hydrant. Presto thought: Would a cop ticket the obviously undercover car? Probably not, but if so, who pays the bill?

“Get in,” she gestured as she went around the car.

He did as advised, and the car noticeably lowered on the right side. It did not balance out when Ridgewood’s lithe frame got behind the wheel. She turned the key, and the engine came to life. Instead of shifting gears, she stretched back and wiped her hand across her brow. Presto saw no signs of perspiration, but she appeared heated.

She looked over to him, her milky skin translucent in the shadowy vehicle. “Thank goodness I’m free of that lunatic, at least for a day,” she said relieved. “Although I sure do feel bad Frank got stuck with him. Donavan promised he’d behave, but I don’t believe it. I almost hope he does something stupid, and Bailey finally axes that jerk.” Her hand went to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I know Bailey is a friend. I just needed to vent a bit.”

“I understand completely,” he told her.

Her lips curled up in a supine stretch, and agent minx smiled. “Thanks. Not to just get away from Donavan; I also wanted to talk to you. You can’t talk to Donavan. He does all the talking and doesn’t listen. He’s crazy,” she declared.

“He’s no introvert, that’s for sure,” Presto replied.

“No, but he’s a pervert. That is for sure,” she complained. “And to think he’s married. Pig,” she uttered in disgust. “He could never get away with this behavior anywhere else, and somehow he does so employed by our very own government.”

Presto could only stare. She was stunning even in despair. Although Presto was still a virgin, it did not mean he did not appreciate beauty. Beauty never appreciated him.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I’m blabbing away over here. Let’s get going.”

In typical New York City fashion, she had to shift from drive to reverse several times before the car cleared a tight squeeze. She negotiated the traffic well, and unlike with Danko, they chatted the whole ride. The destination was Grace Church, which was designed by James Renwick Jr., the same architect who later designed St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Danko and Presto were back at St. Patrick’s in case the killer decided to bring his crusade there again.

A broken-down cab brought the ride to a halt a few blocks from the church. Ridgewood muttered under her breath and pushed away from the steering wheel.

“Don’t stress, Lorraine,” he said, already using her first name, as per her instructions. “We have time. The cathedral has been under surveillance since yesterday.”

She shook herself to a smile. “You’re right. I can’t complain. I’m with you instead of that louse Donavan. I can only imagine what he’d be saying. He’d probably start with something about women drivers,” she said and nosed the vehicle forward.

“I was going to start with something about government drivers being used to red tape gridlock.” His tone told her it was a joke.

Her smile showed she approved. “I wanted to tell you something,” she smiled awkwardly. “I was the agent who detected the pattern with those Web sites. Your name kept popping up. I made a report to Bailey, who knew you, and the rest is history.” She glanced ahead, but they were stuck for the moment. “Bailey raves about you. Says you’re the best. Now that I met you, I’m glad I helped with that inquiry.”

Presto may have appeared physically gelatinous, but now even his innards felt like Jell-O. He was forever used to everyone rejecting him, especially the opposite sex. She was nice to him. She was also beautiful. He snapped back to reality. “Well, then. I owe you more than my gratitude. You can take anything away from a man, but steal his passion, and he’s gutted on the inside, while the exterior becomes petrified. I know that sounds heavy, but that’s how I felt. So, truly, thanks for saving more than a career.”

She grinned. “Just doing my job, sir!”

They both laughed. “Sir, yes sir,” boomed Presto, and they continued to giggle. Her boss, Malcolm, was known for formality and discipline, being a man with a military background and old-fashioned values.

They were close to passing the cab, which had stalled in the center lane. The driver was outside leaning against the hood. His arms flailed about as a bored cop stood with his arms folded, and a bored expression.

Something about Donavan’s erratic behavior nagged Presto. Ridgewood blatantly expressed her disregard for Donavan, but there had been some subtle comments about Bailey. He decided to ask her, but she broke the brief silence first.

“I was saying before that I wanted to talk to you alone.” Their eyes met. She did not immediately look away, and when she did, it was to check the traffic. Not yet. “After I gave my report and Bailey told me about you, I looked you up. I know you have some experience with serial killers. Don’t be mad at me,” she said earnestly.

Anger was the last thing on Presto’s mind. He waved that notion away.

She continued. “I noted you haven’t said much. I figured that has much to do with all the tension, so I wanted to get you alone and talk about the case. Let’s nail this bastard then celebrate over some cocktails.”

Presto replied eagerly, “Sure.”

She smiled and then cheered, “Here we go.” They got past the cab, and they had a green light with them for at least one block. But they were free at last.

Presto was pleased. The case had been mismanaged from the get-go. Despite running the case, the fault was not solely Danko’s, but his recent behavior had been erratic. Neutered and no longer in charge, he was defused and confused. Donavan was the final Waterloo, surgically removing the horns off the legendary bull.

“You got it, partner,” Presto said with a southern twang. His voice returned to normal. “First, I have something I wanted to ask.”

“Sure.” She turned on Tenth Street, and they saw several police cars ahead at the corner of the church.

Presto spread his hands apart. “I don’t know Bailey that well, but I perceive him as a refined, disciplined man who would not tolerate insubordination. Like successful politicians, he commands attention, exudes charm, and demands respect.” He watched her face, but she stared ahead expressionless, waiting for the light to change so they could make the final crawl home.

Her silence told him to continue. “What I’m getting at is Donavan seems to be the antithesis of everything Bailey stands for.” He finally saw something, a quick smile. “So, it just seems odd to me that Donavan could even be an agent of the FBI let alone working under Malcolm.”

Her smile returned, fuller now; partially because she was able to tap the gas peddle. “You either have a keen sense, Detective, or that was as transparent as naughty lingerie.” Her head turned quickly, and she flashed an impish grin.

A distracted Presto asked, “Why then? Is he the great grandson of J. Edgar Hoover, or something?”

She chuckled, went to speak, and stopped. Then said, “I really shouldn’t say anything.”

Presto was disappointed but foresaw this outcome. “I understand,” he said slowly.

Her head bobbed, weighing some thought until she found equilibrium. “If you don’t say anything and promise to help me on this case, truly help me, like silent partners, I’ll explain.”

While Presto absorbed her words, Ridgewood steered alongside a parked police car.

“You can trust me. Scout’s honor.”

She smirked. “You were a scout?”

“No, actually.”

“Didn’t think so.”

They both laughed. Ridgewood rolled down her window and flashed her tin at a cop. Danko had alerted the officers of their arrival. The closest officer appeared surprised by Ridgewood’s appearance. He came over to chat, but she rolled the window back up.

“I’ll confess to you inside,” she exclaimed. “I have my Sunday dress on; let’s go and pray to God we catch this son of a witch.”