Myth Man (22 page)

Ridgewood grimaced. “I am not the most religious person in the world, but that’s evil.”

“The play got bashed from all the religious groups, but as is the norm, the bad press made the play a hit. And as the dollars rolled in, McNally was interviewed quite a bit. If you read those interviews, you see a man who is not just poking fun at religion or even sees his work as art but rather someone who harbors hatred toward these very institutions.”

Presto sighed. “I thought he was worth checking out.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

R
EUNITED IN DANKO’S OFFICE, Ridgewood summarized their day. “We then met Terrence McNally. His background looked promising on paper, but he had an airtight alibi. He was in Europe for six weeks internationalizing his play when the Ash Wednesday and Maha Shivaratri murders occurred.”

“Oh well,” Donavan sang. “Tell us again about the underwear guy with the two kissing babes. Hell, we didn’t get anything titillating like that in the Bronx. Should have known better being a Red Sox fan.”

Presto slumped. He felt guilty that his list had been such a failure. “Sorry this didn’t work out. The last thing I want to do is waste our time.”

“Nonsense,” declared Ridgewood. “You put a lot of thought into that list.”

“Yeah, buddy,” agreed Donavan. “How were you to know that Toby Conklin was seven feet tall from his rambling piece you found in the Letters to the Editors section?” He gave Presto a toothy grin.

Danko agreed. “No need to apologize, Dom. It felt good to get off my ass, and get out on the streets again. In theory, everyone we met made sense, and we’ve yet to exhaust the list. My detectives have been combing the streets for months and have nothing to show for it.” He stopped to shrug. “We need this guy to make a big mistake.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

“W
HAT TIME IS CAMILLE coming down?” Presto inquired. He lay on the couch with his dirty sock–covered feet hung over the armrest.

His mother, who had sat quietly at the kitchen table at work on a newspaper puzzle, stomped her foot enough to get her son’s head to resist gravity. “No sir, Buster. That’s not the way a date works.”

Amused, and in agreement, he answered, “Mom, you’re old-fashioned. That’s not the way it works anymore. Feminism’s changed since the Annie Oakley and Susan B. Anthony era.”

“I should give you a good slap on the behind. I’m not that old, and I know better. When I was injured, I watched all those daytime smut shows. I’m aware things are different, but it does not make them better or proper. Call her and invite her out. Then pick her up.”

Horizontal, Presto snorted “Mom, you’re so melodramatic.
Pick her up
,” he imitated. “The days of hot rods and drive by burger joints are long gone. The Stagnuts live downstairs.”

“Oh, the good ole days,” she swooned. “Camille is lovely. She’s fun; you’re going to have a great time.”

“Look at me. I’m pumped.” He closed his eyes and snored.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

P
RESTO’S FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF Camille were favorable. First, she spared him the visit and suggested they meet in the building lobby. When he arrived on time, she was already there.
A punctual woman?

She carried an easy look. She wore a simple cream cotton knitted sweater, aged blue jeans, and tan, worn loafers. Her dark, wavy hair was cut above her shoulders in a casual bob. She was a few inches shy of six feet, and her frame was curvy, but in a jock sort of way. Her jaw was strong, purposeful. She looked healthy.

Camille reminded him somewhat of Sigourney Weaver, when she had played Dian Fossey in
Gorillas in the Mist
.

“So where are we going?” Camille asked.

“Albano’s. The food is wonderful.”

She winked. “How can it beat my aunt’s home-cooked Italian meals?” Camille said and laughed.

When they arrived, the owner personally led them to a table next to a small indoor water garden. With passionate detail, the owner described the night’s specials.

“I like your mom,” Camille said. “She’s funny.”

A concerto misted the room with soft tones that blended with the warm, homespun décor.

Presto sighed with a twinkle in his eyes. “Please don’t tell her that,” he begged.

The appetizers had arrived, prosciutto
melon and carpaccio. Presto was pleased Camille had not suggested an alcoholic beverage.

“So, what’s it like being a detective? You must get a great deal of satisfaction solving a case.”

“I do,” he said modestly. “Usually it’s routine and boring, but then you have your glamour cases. I like to figure things out. Maybe that’s from my mom. She’s a puzzle freak.”

“I heard about this case you’re working on when I was in California.”

Presto breathed. “Yeah, this one’s a stickler, mainly due to the notoriety of it. The reality of it is, there have been only three murders thus far.”

Camille dunked bread in olive oil, not all that concerned when some drops hit the tablecloth. For once, Presto thought, the other side of the table was as messy as his.

“Yeah, but when you mess with people’s religions, you’re playing with brimstone and fire.”

Presto agreed. “We’ve already seen that acted out in the streets. Hate crimes spiked, but fortunately, that’s subsided.”

The waiter arrived and cleared the appetizer plates and presented their main courses.

“What brings you to New York?” Presto wondered.

“Ultimately, a job prospect, but the impetus is change. I’ve never lived a stagnant life. I guess you can say I’m impulsive. I get an idea, an interest that I become passionate about, and I yearn to learn, live, and master it.”

“Tell me; I’d love to hear.” After Presto said that, it occurred to him that he truly was interested in Camille’s life. She was different in many ways than Ridgewood, but like the FBI agent, she did not look away from him. How could this be possible that after a life without women, he was on successive dates?

“You sure?” Camille asked.

“Yes,” Presto assured. “How’d you end up in California? I heard you were originally from New York.”

Camille swallowed a bite of her risotto. Her face lit up the dim setting. “I went to college at the University of San Diego. I was a good student, but I spent much of my time playing beach volleyball. A tour promoter scouted me, but I wanted to make my parents proud by using my college degree for something. So I was torn”

She bit her lip and gulped. “That’s when tragedy struck. My parents were killed. It was an electrical fire. They’d been asleep, which, I suppose, was a small blessing.”

“I’m sorry,” offered Presto empathetically. He thought of his own father and why his mother had not mentioned this.

She thanked him. “When I was slapped with how finite life is, it changed me. I decided to pursue every dream and whim possible. It started with professional beach volleyball. I made good money and appeared on ESPN2 a few times. I only wish my folks were around to see that,” she said with tainted pride.

After a pause, she cast a girlish smile. “While in Hawaii for a tournament, I met Bugz, the bassist from that band Rebellious Ruffians. He was vacationing there but looking to buy property.”

Camille read Presto’s blank look. “Rebellious? You never heard of them?”

Presto was not used to topics he had no knowledge of. He shrugged. “Sorry.”

“They were a punk band from LA. They were real big in the late nineties.”

“Oh.”

“Well, we hit it off, and I moved to Los Angeles and eventually in with him.”

Presto smirked, and with a dopey accent, remarked, “Sounds like a bug out.”

Her hands were spaced in front of her as she replied, “More than you know,” and then curled her right hand up implicitly. “It was fun for a while—the touring, the wild parties, the drinking, and yes, sorry, Mr. Policeman, the sex and the drugs.”

Presto threw his hand to his head in mock shock. “You really do learn something new every day. So what happened with Bugsy?”

She laughed. “He was fun, but after awhile, it was too much. I went from the pinnacle of health to post-teenage wasteland. Also, I was no longer living my dreams but Bugsy’s,” she said and flashed a pouty smile.

“I always wanted to write, so I broke up with Bugz and moved to San Francisco. Prior to that, when I was with Bugz, I met a lot of various people in the entertainment industry. Directors, actors, agents, screenwriters, and others. The contacts helped, and I was able to get published.”

Presto loved to read, and the notion of writing a book had occurred to him. Surprisingly, he did not want to try his hand with mysteries or anything to do with police work. Besides a cook book, he fancied the idea of doing an Arthurian book that focused more on the once and future king’s early mystical life.

An appreciative Presto asked, “You’ve written a book?”

“Yes. Eight, actually.”

Presto gazed down at his plate. Food was still there. He hated to admit it, but not even Ridgewood had slowed his consumption rate to this point. Camille was combustible energy in the dark, seductive setting.

“What sort of books do you write?”

“I’ve changed, but I started with fiction.”

Inquisitive, “Wow, tell me what you wrote about.”

She giggled. “In the beginning, sex mostly.”

Presto’s mouth dropped. “My, my, my,” he gasped.

“Hey, it sells,” she attested. “At first, I wrote about what I know, the L.A. music scene. It was written through the eyes of a starstruck groupie. Through my contacts, it got some press, and it did reasonably well.”

“What was it called
Memoirs of a Groupie
?”

She grinned. “No, but not a bad hindsight title.
Angel in Hell
—looking back it’s sophomoric, but I’m still proud of it.

“I’ll be online tomorrow looking for a first edition. I want it signed,” he demanded playfully. “I gather you write nonfiction now.” He raised his eyebrows tacitly.

“While in San Francisco, I really changed. I ate healthy, jogged, hiked, swam, and even played volleyball again. With my body and my mind finally clean, I began to look at things existentially. I began to notice that the environment around me was ill. I wanted to nurse Mother Nature and became involved in environmental causes. Not just rally’s and rhetoric, mind you,” she cautioned.

Camille’s head bopped, and her chemical-free hair bounced. “I toured the arctic, dived oceans and lakes, climbed mountains, and stayed out at sea for weeks on end. I learned there is no place that’s sacred. Man’s fingerprints are everywhere.

“Motivated, I went back to school, earned two more degrees, and through a friend, got a job at the San Diego Zoo as herpetologist.”

Presto beamed. Camille was different. His comparison to Dian Fossey had not been that far off.

“A herpetologist? Like you’re a doctor for herpes?” Presto played dumb. He knew a bit about herpetology himself.

Through a twisted grin, she said, “No. It’s …“

Presto cut her off. “I know. I was kidding. I own a snake.”

This seemed to excite Camille. She leaned closer, and Presto was able to smell nothing but pure human, not a hint of artificial fragrance.

“What kind?” she asked. “I own a few myself.”

“She’s a Sinaloan milk snake. She’s beautiful. I named her Aphrodite.”

“Aw,” Camille moaned maternally. “That’s so cute, a big man like you with an inchworm for a snake.”

Presto pretended to look offended. “Hey.”

Still close, she grabbed his hand. “I’m teasing. I love
Lampropeltis triangulum sinaloae
. I have an albino Nelson’s milk snake, which is similar. In addition, I have a blood python, a sand boa, and a Gaboon viper.”

“Wow,” Presto said. “I believe the Gaboon packs the longest fangs of any poisonous snake. Its venom is also extremely toxic.”

Camille let a light whistle escape through her teeth. “Very dangerous but generally docile. Mine has a nice, crusted horn formation above the nostrils.” She put her two pointer fingers on either side of her nose and narrowed her eyes. She hissed and snapped her head forward.

Startled, Presto jerked backward. They both laughed.

They finished their meal while Camille completed the chain of events that brought her to New York. The Bronx Zoo herpetologist had just passed away. The venom that killed him was not from one of the many poisonous creatures he cared for but rather a bee sting.

With Camille’s credentials from the San Diego Zoo and the praise she garnished from her recent books, the position was hers if she wanted it.

Presto insisted they order pastries for desert. Albano’s had some of the best tiramisu in the city.

The conversation turned back to the case.

“Are you religious, Dom?”

Presto had considered that question recently. The world did sometimes seem godless. There was so much pain and hate. Religion offered answers but not solutions; however, Presto still held faith. There had to be a purpose, a higher calling. “I am not a regular, but I choose to believe. What about you?”

For the first time, Camille was not instantaneous in reply. Her pause ignited an answer. “I believe in everything and nothing. I believe that there is a higher power but do not believe in any one religion. I believe in the soul but not its fate in heaven or hell. I believe in astrology but feel that men and women decide their own fates. I believe in science but do not uniformly equate it with progress and believe it can equate with an intelligent design. I believe the government is corrupt and lies and yet believe there are honest civil servants with noble aims. I can believe in paranormal stuff like aliens and ghosts but think that most of the reported sightings and experiences are the works of imagination and greed. I believe in some conspiracy theories but think most conspiracy theorists are nuts. And I believe in love but also believe it will always elude my discovery.”

She finished with a calm energy and added, “Then again, I may be crazy. Look,” she exclaimed and reached into her breast pocket. Her hand withdrew and opened with three dark, polished rocks. “Healing stones,” she announced with a sheepish shrug.

Pesto exhaled. “Crazy is right, woman. You sure you didn’t pull them rocks from your head?”

Camille threw her napkin at him. “You scoundrel.”

He handed the napkin back. “Okay, Camille the Clairvoyant. What about Elvis? Dead or alive.”

A snippet of air escaped her lips as her eyes fluttered. “He’s clinically dead, of course, but his work makes him immortal,” she moaned in her fake trance.

“Very good, genie. J.F.K., lone gunman or something more sinister?”

Camille snapped out from her ruse. “Now that you mention it, what about that? You’re supposed to be the detective. Try and explain this to me. How could …”