Myth Man (29 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

P
RESTO AND THE TWO agents went out for breakfast and gave Danko time to deal with the difficult responsibilities that lay ahead. The mood was like the cafe, bland and gloomy.

In the span of twenty-four hours, they lost Reverend Perkins, Markov, and six police officers. The last time more police officers perished in a single event was the September 11, 2001 tragedy.

Nothing had to be said. Nothing was said. Donavan was thankfully sensible and picked at his food. Presto’s appetite was subdued, but he managed to finish his plate of greasy home fries, dry scrambled eggs, and hard, ready to crumble on contact, toast.

When they returned, Danko was even more flushed. He almost wished he’d died in the blast. What did he have to live for? All six of these men were happily married. Yes, it almost would have been easier to die than to call the victims’ wives and hear their strained voices, the helpless pleas, the shrieking cries, and the cold, deathly silence.

Danko had a long day ahead of him, but he knew how the night would end. Never a big drinker, he amassed bottles from parties and holiday gifts. Tonight, he would drink until he was numb and hopefully pass out. Despite little sleep, he knew that uninhibited, the night would bring demons that would make rest impossible.

“I have news for you,” Danko said in a modulated tone. “Hoole never reported to work. He’s also dead. We’ve been busy with all this,” Danko said with a heavy frown, “but in the early morning, a bomb exploded in a small pub. At first, terrorism was considered, but that dive was hardly a worthwhile target. There were no survivors, and Hoole’s body was unrecognizable, without getting descriptively graphic. Nothing like a credit card, though, when it comes to durability. His was found, and further tests conclude Hoole died in the blast.”

No one mourned or offered any eulogy over Hoole’s explosive demise

Presto was reluctant to talk about the case out of respect for the fallen but thought that might be the best way to ease the remorse. “I know this may not be the right moment to discuss work, but it seems to me Fallow covered his tracks and eliminated potential threats.” Presto stopped. He did not want to press, despite his feeling of anger and urgency.

Danko raised a hand of reassurance. “Presto, it’s okay. You three have a job to do. Go to Sykes’s place and see what they found. Please, keep me in the loop. I have to visit city hall. Mayor Golden wants to personally visit the wives of the deceased.” There was no contempt in Danko’s voice, just sorrow. Despite his deep dislike for Hoole, he genuinely liked the mayor.

Danko’s face sagged. “Oh, I almost forgot. Now that you mentioned it, it seems Fallow’s wife contacted a switchboard operator looking for information on her husband. She said he’d called and claimed to have been abducted. He said he’d already contacted the cops and told her to, believe this, pray for him.”

Despite the carnage at the Sykes house, there was evidence aplenty. In fact, it was all the evidence you could ask for.

They found a costume bag with props, disguises, and makeup. There was a computer hard drive that revealed further incriminating evidence. The refrigerator, which had been partially destroyed due to its proximity to the garage door, still held stable vials of the poison tetrodotoxin.

Lined on a bedroom shelf were incriminating souvenirs. The row of trinkets from left to right were: a wedding ring from the sushi chef and her apparent lover’s eyeglasses, the Muslim cleric’s turban, the Catholic priest’s rosary beads, a finger from the Kali effigy, the grip from Reverend Perkins’s wheelchair, Markov’s stethoscope, a torn page from Lochab’s Guru Granth Sahib, and finally Fallow’s wedding ring.

There was further evidence that another man, besides the three officers on what was the other side of the door, perished. Assault rifles were strewn everywhere.

It was every detective’s dream—all the evidence you could ask for, case closed. Presto knew it wasn’t. Ridgewood and Donavan weren’t sold either. They’d alerted headquarters, and pictures of Fallow had been distributed to law enforcement officials countrywide.

Presto was not optimistic.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

C
OMMISSIONER TIPTON HANDLED THE press and was truthful, by all accounts, but speculation and details were still omitted. Tipton stuck with the facts.

Two religious leaders from the Protestant and Sikh religions were murdered. The police spoke to many people on the case. One was Dean Fallow, president of Iron Fortress Systems. Later, Fallow contacted the police claiming Gary Sykes abducted him. On that tip, the police went to the Sykes’ residence in Bay Ridge. The place had been rigged with explosives, and six officers died. When the embers cooled, detectives found Sykes’s corpse. They also found guns and evidence that was linked with the Myth Man case, including a drug the killer used and items that were connected to Myth Man’s victims. For the moment, Fallow’s status was listed as missing.

At Mayor Golden’s directive, Tipton also mentioned Hoole’s death in the Mash Mill explosion. He went further and stated that, for whatever it’s worth, investigators noted that both Fallow and Hoole attended the same university, at the same time. The connection was being investigated.

Danko was preoccupied with the deaths of his men, but Presto heard that his wife decided to be near him during this time of grief. These were her friends too, especially the mourning wives. Presto heard a hint of optimism.

The two agents prepared for Malcolm Bailey’s arrival. Ridgewood privately told Presto that Bailey would be in New York until the end of Passover. The main purpose of his visit had to do with another matter, but he also wanted to assist with the case.

While everyone fiddled, Presto burned.

He also missed Camille. He never spoke to her after Easter, and two days later, he found an envelope wedge under his front door. Inside was a note.

If I didn’t know what a nice guy you were, I’d think you were blowing me off! Just kidding. I know you’ve been busy. And let me say that I feel for you. I know you’ve been through a lot. I’m going back to California to close out my affairs there. It should take a couple of weeks or so. I look forward to seeing you upon my return. Be careful. I did a reading, and your future is dark and murky. Good luck with everything. If you need someone to talk to, I can be reached at (858) 763-4452.

Love, Camille

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

“A
NOTHER ROUND,” SLURRED DONAVAN at the female bartender, who wore so little clothing that Presto wondered if she was cold. Maybe the hard work kept the blood motoring, he gathered.

Presto put a hand up in protest, but Donavan ignored it like a runner that blows past a third base coach’s stop signal and heads for home. “Yeah, right,” Donavan mocked.

What the hell
, thought Presto. They needed a wild respite, and Bailey was treating.

Bailey had arrived a few days prior, but he’d been preoccupied. He’d called Presto and explained.

The crate from Iraq was set to arrive to coincide with the Jewish Passover. Negotiations between the U.S. and Iraq governments allowed the Jewish people to claim their artifact, but only if it was delivered to America. The Orthodox religious parties in Israel insisted the find be given and governed under the auspices of a responsible organization. After intense lobbying, the crate was to be delivered on the first day of Passover to the Chabad-Lubavitch, a Hasidic organization.

The story of the crate had made the news, but thus far the press had not reported its destination point. Speculation of the crate’s contents was rampant, and a one-hour documentary was even shown on the Discovery Channel.

Presto wiped his brow figuratively when Bailey explained the divisiveness and legal, scientific, and religious wrangling he’d witnessed. He readily admitted his own curiosity over what was in the crate. He hoped, being on the scene, he’d get a sneak preview of the discovery.

Donavan suggested a night out on the town, and Bailey obliged, proud that his old alma mater was “shaking off the skirt.”

Danko was in no mood for revelry and still mourning his fallen brothers. Ridgewood and Presto were also reluctant, but after they briefed Bailey, he insisted the team unwind over a few drinks. Donavan claimed to know a decent spot for people their age called Sweet Virginia’s.

The few drinks became many. Donavan now lined up shots of alcohol, something Presto had not done since college.

The cute bartender, with low-cut jeans that indiscreetly revealed a black, barbed-patterned tattoo each time she turned her back, served their drinks. The drinks were clear but deadly.

“More vodka?” Presto asked, as Donavan slid the shots along the bar.

“Russian jet fuel,” answered Donavan. “How do you think those bastards got that Sputnik thing up there before us? You can’t survive the Russian winters without it. Just ask the Germans.”

Presto wasn’t sold. Neither was Bailey, who declared, “I’m Irish, like you Donavan, not Russian. I only drink Jameson.”

Donavan laughed. “Am I letting you down? I drank so much whiskey growing up I practically used it with my cereal. Now, good vodka is the only booze I can remotely handle.” Donavan whistled to the bartender and asked for two shots of Jameson and another round of vodka for the rest of the group. “Anyone else object before she leaves?”

Ridgewood squinted like the sun was in her eyes. “Hey, I can knock them back with the best of them, but you’re all bigger than me. Let’s slow it down a bit.”

“I’m twice as big as all of you combined,” Presto said gaily, “and I’ve never been this shitfaced in my life.”

They all laughed except Donavan who spouted air like the first steam bursting through a kettle. “Party poopers,” he lamented sarcastically. Then he raised his eyebrows and shot glass and downed them both. Ridgewood and Presto did likewise.

Donavan’s face split into a grin, while Ridgewood and Presto grimaced like they had chugged Tabasco sauce. The bartender returned with the extra Jameson, and the ritual was repeated.

As drunk as Presto was, he had to admit that Bailey’s plan was working. After days of somber looks, everyone was having a good time. Donavan and Bailey chatted like father and son. Ridgewood and Presto grinned at each other and laughed at each other’s sudden wit. Of course, the alcohol oasis was a mirage in the mind, but that was the point, if only for one night.

Presto’s vision was now blurred, except when it came to Ridgewood. Her visage was crystal clear, and she looked more beautiful than ever. When she left and then returned from the ladies room, his eyes followed her, and he again considered himself fortunate to be in her company.

The party could not go on forever, though. When he saw the bartender pouring the umpteenth shot, he finally succumbed. “Hey, Donavan. Enough. I’m not used to
drunking
this much,” he slurred.

“I hear you, big guy. The last thing I want to see is you throwing up. I saw this special where they cut open this huge whale, and …”

Ridgewood flew off her stool. She stood up to the seated Donavan, and yet there was not much height disparity between them.

“That was out of line, Donavan,” she steamed.

Bailey’s head swayed, and he wobbled on his stool before he steadied himself. “Carter Donavan” he admonished. “How many times have I warned you about ridiculing others over your own insecurities derived from your unpleasant upbringing? Talent alone will not suffice. Discipline yourself. I can’t save you forever.”

Bailey was clearly blitzed. A fire burned in his belly. His voice was overly demonstrative.

Presto was a tad surprised to see Donavan acquiesce to his boss and mentor. He nodded slowly, his face taut and relenting. “I’m sorry, Dom. It was stupid of me, and I mean it because, in your case, I like and respect you.” He offered his hand.

Presto readily shook. He thought the reaction was overdone. There was no malice in Donavan’s voice. He was just being himself. But it was nice to see Ridgewood and Bailey defend him so. Still, he wanted to end the sudden tense moment with a laugh.

“It’s okay, Donavan. If I throw up, I promise you won’t see any tires or human remains. I’m picky about what I eat.”

Presto’s inflection worked, and they all giggled. As Ridgewood turned away, Donavan loudly whispered, “Then you should eat Ridgewood. She’s a fish.” He barked a laugh, like the seals Presto had seen with Camille the day they toured the Bronx Zoo.

Ridgewood spun around. Presto heard her shoe souls screech, like a fast traveling car forced to immediately cut laterally. She braked and smacked Donavan across the face with the force of a high-impact fender bender.

Bailey looked to take control. He rose from his stool like a doddering king leaving his throne for war. “Donavan, you deserved that. This is ridiculous. We were having fun.” Bailey gulped his drink and flagged the bartender. “One more round; let’s drink and make up.”

The call to party did not assuage the two combatants. They stared at each other hard, like two boxers before they’re asked to touch the gloves.

Ridgewood spoke first. “You’re an asshole.” She moved back to her stool in between Bailey and Presto.

As Ridgewood’s rear touched the seat, Donavan replied with venom, “You’re a cold cunt. No wonder your husband wanted to strangle himself with hookers.”

Presto flinched. He felt compelled to respond, despite the consequences. So did Bailey. The words were bad enough, but the sneer in Donavan’s voice was triumphant.

A barback with a steroid-enhanced body and shaved, lumpy head grabbed Donavan by the collar.

“That’s no way to talk to a lady. I’m
gonna
ask you to leave. If you’re a smart boy, you’ll exit. If not, I’m
gonna
boot your ass out of here.” He let go of the shirt and gestured his head towards the door. “Capiche?”

Bailey again tried to establish his authority. “I’ll take control of the situation.”

The barback was not assuaged. “No, sir. I’ve watched this unfold. You’re drunk, and you
ain’t
doing jack.”

Presto, who avoided confrontation like health foods, pleaded, “Hey, let’s go outside and get some fresh air and let cooler heads prevail.”

Hazy, Bailey was at a loss for words, but Donavan wasn’t. “Yeah, let’s blow this dump.” He looked at the barback, sized him up, sniffed, and said, “Trust me, cue ball, I’d rather not crack that Humpty Dumpty –looking head. Stop with the tough guy act, and go scrub the men’s room, or I’ll hit you so many times you’ll think you’re surrounded.”

Everyone within earshot stared at both of them.

The barback scowled. Donavan, meanwhile, beamed a sunny smile and casually lifted his jacket from the stool.

Bailey rose, as did Presto. When Donavan stepped toward the door, Presto thought all would end well.

Donavan quickly turned back into Bailey, pressing them against the bar. “I apologize. In my haste to exit this foul establishment, I almost forgot to leave a tip to reward the wonderful hospitality.” He rummaged through his pocket. To the bartender, he said, “Thanks, honey. You did a fine job with the shots. Here’s a fifty for you.”

At first she fidgeted, but the money gained her interest, and she meandered over, with an awkward grin, and took the bill. She winked.

Donavan then flicked a quarter in the air, caught it, and snapped it down on his wrist. He looked. “Tails never fails,” he declared. He looked at the coin and then turned to the barback. “It’s shiny like your head.” He tossed the quarter on the bar, and it rolled toward the barback. “Get a new shave. I think I saw some pubic scruff on the back of your cranium.”

The barback snapped like a provoked viper. His fist lashed out, but like a mongoose, Donavan was quicker and sidestepped the wayward punch, which caught Bailey on the shoulder.

Presto, never a fighter and blind drunk as he was, did not flinch. Ridgewood, however, sprung to life, and with a primal scream, she dove into the mix and pulled at the two agents with surprising strength. “Let’s go,” she screamed.

Like a wave, they all flowed toward the door, all the while, Donavan and the bulging barback traded barbs. An actual fight would have been a competitive affair, but verbally, Donavan slew him like a paper dragon.

Outside, Ridgewood immediately checked on Bailey, who was defiant that he did not feel a thing from the punch. Presto was certain that in Bailey’s condition he might not have differentiated if he’d been struck with an iron mace. Donavan declared the night was not yet over and suggested a new bar. Bailey quickly agreed. Ridgewood called them fools and implored them to call it quits.

Donavan looked to Presto, who also declined.

“Awe, I get it.” His eyes roamed back and forth from Presto to Ridgewood.

Ridgewood, for the second time, walked over and smacked Donavan in the face. Bailey grabbed Donavan and pulled him away.

They kept walking.