Myth Man (27 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

P
RESTO RUBBED THEIR TWO knives together, as if he were sharpening their edges. He returned Ridgewood’s knife and cut into his porterhouse steak with exaggerated relish. Ridgewood laughed at his theatrics, while Presto wondered how he lived all these years without the company of a female friend.

Presto realized that being in the presence of hotness was not difficult, as he once feared. He recycled jokes between his two dates successfully and learned to ask the right questions that allowed the women to carry the conversation. It was like detective work. He was having a blast. Plus, the best part was, dates seemed to revolve around food—familiar ground.

Ridgewood suggested dinner to cover the day’s events, specifically Dean Fallow. Ridgewood was harder to turn down than a free meal, and Presto wanted to flesh out his thoughts with her.

After feasting on the main course, a porterhouse for three, they sank into the meat of the matter. A slightly suddenly troubled Ridgewood asked, “So you think you’ve seen Fallow before? There are only so many places that could be.”

Presto sucked in some air like he was ready for a task of great exertion. “I think I may know where but am hesitant to make the conclusion, because if so, Fallow is our man, and I do not want uncertainty to lead us in the wrong direction.”

Ridgewood jolted alert. “Where? Tell me. From the moment I laid eyes on the guy, I feel like I’ve seen him before. Recently. He looks too damn familiar, but I just can’t place it.”

This intrigued Presto. “If memory serves me right, last week, Palm Sunday, at Grace Cathedral.” But then he spaced his hands in a
who knows
gesture.

Despite his caution, Ridgewood gyrated her body in a little seated samba celebration. “Oh, Dom, we could use a break,” she squealed. “That must be where I remember him from too.” The connection seemed to relieve her, but she noticed he was not quite as bubbly. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed. “We could be wrong; a mind trick projecting a wish.” He saw her face scrunch in doubt. “The man I saw looked different but similar. But, we know the killer’s penchant for disguise. I can’t be sure, and even if it is Fallow, we have no proof. I have a hunch that whether it’s Fallow or not, this will not end as routinely as we like.”

Ridgewood chose to stay upbeat. “You may be right on all counts. Fallow could be an innocent man, but if not, Dom, this is a break, and evidence may surface if we get a warrant. Remember we’ve found hair and other evidence before. Then there was the foreign blood on Markov.”

Presto could not dispute her optimism. “We’ll see. Unfortunately, I think our man is too cunning for this to be transparent and dissolve like tissue paper.”

“What do you make of this story Fallow told us about the guy he interviewed? Imagine if this lead turns out to be the Myth Man.”

Despite a table void of food, Presto sniffed, but it was a whiff of disbelief. “He may turn out to be, but not the actual killer.”

Ridgewood knew what he was getting at. “Ah, that means you truly suspect Fallow.”

“I suspect I’m still hungry,” Presto said with a laugh. “Now how about dessert?”

Ridgewood huffed. “I shouldn’t, but why not. You’re a bad influence,” she reprimanded, “in a good way,” she grinned.

“The Calorie Kid strikes again.”

“So will my dentist.”

After they ordered dessert, she asked if they should call Danko and apprise him of their feelings on Fallow.

“I figured I’d wait until tomorrow. I want to be better sure of myself.”

Their chocolate soufflé arrived, and the smell and taste killed the conversation for several minutes, minus mimed eye gesticulations and moans of pleasure.

Presto finished his dessert uncomfortably before Ridgewood. With salivating difficulty, he watched her finish the last several mouthfuls.

As soon as she took the napkin from her lip, he asked, “I need a favor.”

She reached for her mineral water. “Sure, what?”

“I want a list run of every name possibly associated with Fallow’s life: every person in the town he grew up with, classmates and teachers throughout his scholastic career, co-workers, relatives, you get the idea.”

“I do. What are you looking for?”

Presto chose to lie. It was not because he wanted to keep secrets from Ridgewood or because, as he was often accused, he was trying to go it alone and gain the glory. This was different; it was personal. Myth Man had inside information. Someone set him up. He wanted to know who that was. The connection would also affirm Fallow’s guilt. Despite his hesitations with Ridgewood, he sensed Fallow was their man. “I want to cross-check his name with a multitude of things like security at the cathedrals, police, a whole bunch of things.”

Ridgewood smiled mischievously. “Sounds like a whole bunch of bull, but you’re the famous detective. I’ll get you what you need.”

“Thanks,” gushed Presto.

She smiled and then said. “Oh yeah, I liked your
old
trick in getting Fallow’s prints. Too bad you couldn’t get some hair and blood samples to compare them with the recent clues we got.”

“That was more to rattle him. We have no prints. Let’s keep in mind that thus far, most of the clues have been planted.”

“My, my, you are the ever cautious one. Maybe I’m too hopeful.”

“It’s okay, Lorraine. I prayed today for the first time in ages. We could all use a little hope right now.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

M
YTH MAN OPENED THE safe house garage door and entered the now dilapidated kitchen. He’d check on the homeowner in a minute. First he had to make an important call.

He pulled out a stolen, secure cell phone and dialed. After a few rings, his contact answered. Myth Man got to the meat of the matter. “I had a visit today from Detective Presto and Agent Ridgewood.”

“She’s a real ball buster but better than her partner, Agent Donavan.”

Myth Man smirked. “You don’t know, man,” he said literally. “She badgered my balls until they were sandblasted blue. That’s not nice, since she was so pleasant the last time I saw her. Meanwhile, Presto barely said a word. It didn’t matter. He knew. I could tell.”

“Sure you’re not paranoid?”

“No,” Myth Man declared emphatically. “Presto knows. It had to end sometime,” he lamented. “That’s obvious. One more, and I’m done.”

Myth Man heard the man breathe deeply. Then, “Bail now, buddy. You’re famous. You’ve made your mark. Set the plan. Be a phoenix, die, and live again.”

Myth Man knew the advice was sound. Why risk it? He wanted one last thrill and was not sure yet if he could execute his plan involving the Iraqi crate. Either way, it was almost time to shift the blame and disappear. Pretso would have his doubts, but the Dankos of the world would want the case wrapped up. With no murders forthcoming, over time, the man in the safe house would go down in history as Myth Man. On his deathbed, Myth Man would reveal his genius.

“I’m going tonight. It’s a Sikh holiday. I’ll be careful. If I can’t do it, I won’t.”

The man sniffed. “You’re my friend, but I’m also saying this from a financial standpoint. I think you should quit.”

“You’ll get your money,” Myth Man said evenly. “Tonight.”

“Where?” the man stammered.

Myth Man laughed. “What’s the matter? You don’t trust me?”

“No, I do,” the man said with the conviction of a prostate surgeon responding to the question,
Will this hurt
? “But I am the one person who knows your identity. Do you trust me?”

“I do,” Myth Man said with utter conviction. “Naming me only incriminates you. Anyway, let’s meet at a public place. A bar. We’ll toast to our success and to the day when we may meet again. The money will be in the briefcase. You give me the papers and the keys to the car.”

His contact did not respond immediately, but when he did, there was noticeable relief. “That sounds like a swell idea. I’m buying.”

“With all that money, you better. Oh, by the way, what’s my new name?”

The guy laughed. “Chip Dexter.”

“What? Couldn’t you find something more anonymous?”

“Listen, all that matters is that it’s clean. No kin came forward. His death has never been reported. You got a decent bank account. The guy was a professional gambler. He had no friends to speak of, so Chip Dexter it is.”

The name annoyed him, but he knew his contact was right. “Thanks. Meet me at
Mash Mill at 3:00 am.”

“Be careful.”

Myth Man grinned. Betrayal is a beautiful thing. Judas was a personal hero.

After he hung up, Myth Man prepared. He carried two bags to the bedroom and placed objects in the comatose man’s hands. Then, around the safe house, he scattered evidence that would incriminate the ex-marine. Makeup kits and various disguises were placed in the bathroom cabinet.

In the parents’ old room, he deposited paraphernalia from all of the crime scenes on a dresser. Lastly, he took off his latex gloves and removed his wedding ring. He returned to the soon to be dead man’s room. After registering the man’s prints on his ring, he returned to the parent’s room and placed the wedding ring next to one that had belonged to the sushi chef he’d disposed of.

Myth Man returned to the garage, opened the van doors, and removed another duffel bag. He removed two wire-connected IEDs from the bag. He placed one on the bed; the other he rigged to the front door.

Myth Man had to credit his victim for the final idea of his plan. When the man showed him the two
improvised explosive devices a friend in the service had smuggled out of Iraq, the idea came immediately.

He carried the now-emaciated man he’d spent the worst part of five months with and sat him by the front door next to the explosive. He left and then returned with a few of the man’s guns. He propped a Chinese made AK-47 assault rifle in his hands.

“Sorry, pal. It’s been real and all. We’ve had fun, haven’t we? No hard feelings.”

Myth Man looked around one final time before he grabbed his laptop and marched through the kitchen door to the garage. The garage door opened, and he walked out into a starless evening. Heck, they were in Queens.

As he reached the sidewalk, he looked back to the safe house for a final time.

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when Myth Man arrived at the Gurdwara in Richmond Hills, Queens. He wore a blue turban, darkened his skin, and sported a fake trimmed beard. The clothes were retro and out of style. Myth Man came to the conclusion that the average middle-aged Sikh male drew his fashion tastes from aged sitcoms on the rerun circuit.

As he hoped, Myth Man did not detect any police presence. Normally, his kills were several weeks apart. There was no way they expected this. Not even Presto.

The Gurdwara he approached was similar to the Kali temple in that it was merely another house on the block. To Myth Man’s amusement, the previous Sikh center had burned to the ground, and the Sikh’s were forced to set up smaller centers in the meantime.

A relatively new religion, it was started by the first of ten Gurus, Guru Nanak, who was born in 1469. Unlike most other religions, Sikhism was not based on mythological lore, which made it an unlikely target for Myth Man.

If he had his druthers, Myth Man would have rather taken his anger out on the Mormons, Jews, or maybe even a celebrity cultlike group such as Scientology for the last hoorah, but alas, the show could not go on forever.

Baisakhi was New Year’s to both the Sikhs and Hindus, but for the Sikhs it was held in special regard. The day honors the creation of the Khalsa, or Sikh brotherhood.

The tenth guru, Gobind Singh Sahib, called a meeting in 1699 where more than fifty thousand attended. He brandished a sword and asked who was willing to die for their faith. His call was met with silence. He asked again and again. A man named Daya Ram took the challenge. He was led back into a tent. After several moments, the guru emerged with a now bloody sword. He repeated his call until another man accepted giving his life for his faith. Once again, he was led back into a tent, and only the Guru emerged, his sword fresh with blood.

The Guru repeated his message until five men were taken back to the tents. Then, the five men emerged in new robes and were baptized as Khalsa, or pure ones, who were to be part saint, scholar, and soldier.

Now, Myth Man would also venerate the memory with a modern day Khalsa of his own: an army of the dead.

Outside the Gurdwara door, Myth Man took out his phone and dialed. He was ready.

Sikh and destroy.