Myth Man (31 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

P
RESTO ARRIVED AT DANKO’S office as buoyant as a 300 plus–pound man could be. His night with his mother was perfect. She swooned over the flowers, devoured the steak, and laughed through two movies. It was like old times, and Presto felt reassured.

Aphrodite ate the mouse, and when he woke in the morning, he saw the lump still in her mid belly.

Maybe things were about to get better, and with that optimism, Presto strode into Danko’s office.

Danko had some pulse back. His finger tapped his desk to some unheard rhythm. His head bopped to the same inner beat.

Presto again thought of Camille. She’d have a theory of some sort: a day of positive biorhythms, an astrological anomaly of positive persuasion, or perhaps a theory on sunspot variances.

As Presto went to take a seat, Danko rose and offered a hand. “Morning, Dom,” he said like they were regular chums. “Good to see you.”

“Same to you, Frank.”

Presto noticed something different. The pictures of his wife, which had been momentarily removed, were back.

Danko still grooved to some beat, and his words came out in melody. “I wanted to say what a pleasure it’s been working with you. I was wrong about you, and I’m glad my misconceptions changed.”

Presto’s opinion changed as well. No longer did he see Danko as a cold, stubborn, hasty detective. “Thanks, Frank. Let’s just say the respect’s mutual.” He paused. “Has the status of the case changed?”

“It has,” answered Danko. “Commissioner Tipton convinced the Mayor, that the police, at present force size, cannot maintain vigilant surveillance every holiday without serious consequences. There’s terrorism, visits from dignitaries around the world, and evidence of a spike in other criminal activity, surely caused by resources being directed to Myth Man. You cannot put all your police yolks in one frying pan.

“Fallow is on the wanted list and still considered missing, but Tipton thinks we’ve seen the last of him, dead or alive. We’ll still keep the case open, but after Passover, we’ll all go back to our normal lives. I’m sure Jack Burton misses you.”

Presto had yet to find an aperitif to cleanse the bitter taste he felt from the lack of closure. Presto wanted to keep his doubts to himself for the moment. No reason to strum a distorted riff and drown Danko’s good vibrations. “I suppose it makes sense. We’re detectives. That’s our job. We can multitask cases.”

Danko smiled warmly. “That’s right, until the next big one comes along. If a big case lands on my lap in the hopeful distant future, would it be permissible to seek your assistance?”

“Naturally,” Presto said with a deliberate pause, “as long as the offer is mutually inclusive and that I may call you as well.”

Danko snorted. “You’ll never need my help, but thanks for saying that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” interjected Presto. “I’m asking for your assistance now.”

“This I’ve got to hear,” an amused Danko replied.

Presto leaned his head toward Danko. “You already know where Malcolm has to be for the Jewish Passover. Due to some agreement with the mayor and Commissioner Tipton, he’s obligated to have some NYPD evident—in other words, on the perimeter, visible, and out of the way.”

Danko laughed as Presto continued. “Bailey asked me to round up a few trustworthy bodies to do that. I’d hate to kill one of your Sundays but hoped we’d all spend one last day together.”

Danko bit and pressed his lips in consternation. “I had planned the day with the family. What’s the time frame?”

“Then take the day. It’s no big deal.”

Danko waved the offer away. “How long, Presto?”

“Early. We have to be there around six o’clock in the morning, but we should be free by noon.”

Danko smirked. “Should be? What if our pal Myth Man shows up?”

Presto grinned. “What if I showed up a thin, gaunt man? Neither will happen.”

“Okay then. Don’t go on a crash diet, because if you look thinner tomorrow, I’m going home.”

“Deal.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY

“I
’M FLYING IN SUNDAY, on the red-eye,” Camille informed with bubbly zest.

Her tone pleased Presto. “That’s great,” he managed, as Ridgewood came to mind. He shook away the image of her naked, straddling over him. “Can’t wait to see you. If you’re not tired, I’d love to take you to dinner Sunday night.”

“I would really like that. I have to actually visit the zoo when I arrive, but I’ll come home and take a nap, so I wake rested and hungry.”

When the call ended, Presto was not surprised to see almost an hour had passed. Time with Camille passed like anesthesia or, as Camille would likely say, like time lost to an alien intrusion.

He left his study and checked in on Aphrodite. Presto felt a lurch in his gut. Lying dead and glazed over from Aphrodite’s digestive system was the mouse. She’d regurgitated another. He felt this was a bad omen in more ways than one.

After disposing of the mouse, he went to his mother who was watching TV in the living room. Two politicians were in a heated debate that reminded Presto of two children fighting over a toy. He anticipated a debate from his mother when he’d prewarned her that he was going to dinner with Ridgewood tonight. She knew Ridgewood was headed back to life in Virginia, so she didn’t protest much. She gave him a peck on the cheek. “Have a nice night.”

Ridgewood called and suggested a last dinner together, sushi, like their first night together. He nervously agreed, as it was the first time they would be alone since their interlude.

They met at the same bar, but thankfully, it was less crowded. She had on a simple black cotton V-neck shirt that contoured her figure like wet paint. Her pants were standard khakis that fell to her open-toed sandals. She gave him a stronger peck on the cheek than his mother, but not in the woodpecker sense.

She immediately told him that there was something she wanted to talk about but wanted to wait until they ordered.

Presto knew the menu enough that there was no need to open it, but he did. He figured she wanted to talk about their night together, and this made him jittery, so Presto raised the menu so he was unable to make eye contact for a brief respite until he relaxed himself.

The same waiter from their last visit came to the table and bowed. “Mr. Presto. So good to see you again.” He looked to Ridgewood. “And good to see you, too, beautiful lady, if I may be so forward.”

Ridgewood deflected the compliment with a curt laugh.

They both began to work the edamame bowl, and after a few legume pops, Ridgewood spoke. “Besides wanting to spend a last, good night together, I also wanted to talk about the case.”

Ridgewood drew as close as the table permitted. Presto had visions of her face
that
morning.

She said, “I also agree that Fallow is at large, and I am not sure if it even has to do with him, but something is peculiar about Sunday.” Her eyes narrowed in a conspiratorial fashion. “I probably will over step my boundaries, but our presence at the synagogue has nothing to do with Myth Man. It’s something else. I can’t go into it.” She paused in thought. “Did Malcolm brief you on this at all?”

Presto was not sure if he should divulge Bailey’s words, just as he would not betray her trust to Bailey. “Nothing specific. He called it ‘perimeter work.’ Malcolm told me to assemble a small team of ten officers.”

Ridgewood appeared to accept that. “That’s more or less where you’ll be, along with me. I have outside detail.” Her face grew incredulous. “You know the deal with women and religion. We get the bum rap. It all started with Eve and the stupid apple. Probably a myth some guy wrote,” she muttered.

Ridgewood refocused her thoughts. “Although I know in detail, our mission and what else is going down, there’s something amiss.” Her eyes wandered aimlessly, as if a clue could emerge within an abstract vision. “I don’t know if it’s Donavan or Bailey or the both of them, but I feel something’s not right. Ever since Donavan and Malcolm boozed that night away, Donavan has been acting weird. He’s not been himself. He’s been unusually withdrawn. He’s made these strange, negative comments about Bailey, saying he’s corrupt. Minutes later, he professes he loves him like a father.”

Ridgewood stopped to let her words settle. “I know Malcolm is a friend, he’s mine too, but he truly respects you. Maybe Sunday goes without a hitch. Let’s hope, but I have a funny feeling, except the vibe is not humorous. Keep your ears open, and if something does happen, be careful, and most of all, don’t trust anyone, Dom.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

J
ACK BURTON PUMPED PRESTO’S hand. “Welcome back. Take a seat, Dom.”

Presto always preferred Burton’s office to Danko’s. One reason was a full-sized leather couch along the far wall. The precinct commander was known for long hours, and when duty stole a night from his own bed, he’d catch some sleep on the couch. You always knew when the boss was taking a power nap, because he snored like a growling, prowling bear.

Presto said, “I have a favor to ask.” He explained Bailey’s request to assemble a team. He asked if he could round out the rest of the squad.

“I need to get eight bodies?” asked Burton.

“No, seven. I asked Frank to help out.”

“Really? You guys have grown tight. Are you sure you’re not going to ask for a transfer to work with him now,” Burton said and added a deep, sarcastic laugh. “I can see you doing dinners at the Dankos’, except that I hear they’ve separated.”

“Actually, she moved back in,” Presto said with enough zeal to induce another Burton rib.

“That seals it,” Bailey certified. “Your fraternizing cost you my wife’s home cooking. This must be a racial thing.”

“Now you went too far, and I’m not talking about the racism canard,” Presto said with mock outrage. “I am not trading in Danko’s protein shakes for your wife’s edible masterpieces.”

“You just like a pretty Nubian serving you. You feel like the
mastah.
” Burton could not hold in his ruse any longer and laughed heartily. “How about dinner Sunday night then?”

Despite his disdain for how the Myth Man case concluded, now that he was here in his own precinct, he felt the tourniquet of doubt loosen and inhaled a welcome breath of nostalgia. It was Burton. He was the first to care more about what Presto brought to the table rather than what he ate at it.

Presto was ready to agree to Sunday when he remembered Camille. “I can’t Sunday; I have plans. But any day thereafter …”

“Plans? With who? Frank? Next you’ll tell me you two are hitting the gym together.”

Presto went to object, and his words tumbled like spilled peas. Burton could not contain himself, and he slapped his desk with a hearty laugh. Presto laughed too. It truly was good to be home.

They made plans for Thursday, and Presto was thankful he did not have to explain about Camille, yet.

Presto discussed the Myth Man case at length: the suspects they interviewed and the players involved, Dean Fallow, Gary Sykes, Spencer Hoole, Malcolm Bailey, Carter Donavan, and Loraine Ridgewood. He detailed the friction between the two agents, and to better explain Donavan’s fighting spirit, he told of the encounter at Sweet Virginia’s.

Burton looked puzzled but excited, like a jigsaw fanatic who just dropped a thousand different wedges on a table. “I’m shocked that you went out to a bar, but Sweet Virginia’s, no less.” Burton wiped at his lips, which became overly lubricated in his excitement. “Just last night, two people that worked there were murdered, a male and female; both were shot dead in their own apartments.” He paused and stroked a few keys on his computer keyboard. “Looks like the male put up a fight. His place was messed up. Blood was found that was not the victim’s.”

Presto’s heart jolted. “Do you have any pictures of the deceased?”

“Hold it there; I’m getting to it.” Burton tapped a few keys and opened a dossier file on the deceased. “Here’s the female,” he said and turned the monitor so Presto could see. “Claire Hutchins.”

Presto did not recognize the name, but he knew her. It was the bartender who served them the night they were there.

“You know her?” Burton gazed across at him.

“Let me see the male,” Presto stuttered. His mouth went dry. His blood and mind raced but stalled, as if too much gas clogged the carburetor, inhibiting ignition.

Burton punched a key, and the picture changed. Presto had hoped he would not recognize the male. Reason trumped desire. On the monitor screen was the barback who scuffled with Donavan.

Burton snapped his fingers. “Dom, what is it?”

Presto sat there speechless.

“Talk to me,” Burton urged.

“I need you to do me a favor. Find the detective on this case and ask him to check a few things for me.”