The 8th Circle (17 page)

D
anny slid the disc Linda had given him into Theresa’s laptop. He’d bought the computer for her when she insisted she needed it because she was going back to school any day. The trouble was that every few months, she had a new idea: dental hygienist, medical assistant, interior designer. He gave her points for sticking with the receptionist job she’d managed to secure with Jimmy Manisky. He wasn’t sure if it was Theresa’s typing skills or the fact that Jimmy had been sweet on her all his life. Now divorced from his third wife, Jimmy was still sweet on Theresa and had a thriving dental practice, despite his penchant for cheating wives and bad toupees and his unfortunate resemblance to an overweight Chihuahua. If Theresa had given him the slightest encouragement, he would have been her slave, but even Theresa had her standards.

He opened the files that popped up. The first was a restaurant review. The Red Door. Michael rated it four stars plus.

“Look behind the Red Door for Bruce Delhomme’s real specialties. . . . Any fantasy your palate desires will be fulfilled here; Red Door caters to the outrageous . . .”

Kinky, for a restaurant review. Michael’s style had improved, though it was out of place here. Or maybe it wasn’t. Bruce
Delhomme of the shampoo commercial hair and overindulged child manners served up exotic food and what else?

Bruce Delhomme, friend of Andy and Robert Harlan. Danny made a note to check through the senator’s campaign filings to see if Delhomme was a contributor and, if so, how big. The most recent filings wouldn’t be out for a few more weeks, but he could go backward. He added Bartlett Scott to the list and then called Linda’s appointment secretary and cajoled her to e-mail him the guest list.

“Linda wanted me to check out some names quietly,” he told her. She had agreed tearfully after informing him she’d sent the same list to the police.

He didn’t expect surprises. Most of the people who appeared were bound to show up on a donor list for Robert Harlan. It was always politically wise to hedge one’s bets when donating to a candidate, even in the bitter partisan political atmosphere. Robert Harlan wasn’t likely to be defeated in Pennsylvania; therefore, major donors were going to line his pockets whether they liked him or not. It guaranteed an audience. Robert Harlan was a business conservative: he talked family values but never let those hardcore conservative beliefs interfere with business interests.

Danny went back to the restaurant reviews. Twenty more restaurants—some of which he knew well. Michael rated fifteen of them four stars plus. It all seemed innocuous, except for Michael’s vaguely obscene prose and the fact that half of them were mediocre places at best. Danny couldn’t believe someone killed Michael over smutty restaurant reviews, and he didn’t see the connection between upscale eateries and the Inferno.

Still, there had to be one or Michael wouldn’t be dead.

Danny opened another file: Black Velvet. Michael rated it four stars plus and called it “a delightfully decadent feast for the voyeur but not hard core.” Black Velvet of the lip-shaped couches and naked bodies was a whole different kind of feast, not exactly a place you’d recommend as a top nightspot in a mainstream paper. He wondered what Michael considered hard core until he opened the next file.

Club Midnight in Northern Liberties, which was, according to Michael, a Bruce Delhomme Enterprise, though not one on the record books. “Club Midnight is not for all tastes. . . . Private rooms upstairs have the real action. . . . The dungeon is reserved for special members. . . . Luscious leather and chains are available for those who like it hard. Bring your own whips and fantasies. Pain guaranteed. Four stars plus.” Just below Michael had typed “Tophet.” Danny wasn’t sure if it was part of Club Midnight or a new entry he hadn’t filled in.

None of this made sense. How could Michael compare sex clubs to restaurants? Unless the four stars plus wasn’t a rating but some kind of code. A code that signified a connection to something. What did restaurants and sex clubs have in common? What did Club Midnight and Bruce Delhomme’s upscale restaurants have in common?

What was it Zach had said? “It ain’t a club—not like this. It’s like management. It operates clubs, and depending on your level of membership, you get access.”

Access to what?

A sex club where rich old coots got jacked off or something more? The Inferno was management. Maybe they managed clubs and provided special services. Danny was sure that Midnight was the sex club Theresa described. The one that specialized in S and M. She said there were levels of membership, and after they negotiated for a while, she even remembered where she put Vic’s card. It was similar to the one he found at Michael’s. This one was flashier, gold divided by a red line with a black drop in the center—just the thing for a dealer on the rise.

Amazing what money could do to jog the memory.

Dumbass
.
Concentrate
.

One file remained: an image. Danny wasn’t sure what he expected, maybe a dominatrix complete with whip and full leather ensemble. He wasn’t prepared to see a photograph taken more than nine years ago at his father’s funeral.

It had reached one hundred and four that day, a new record for the city. He remembered that Kevin’s face had burned bright
red above his dress uniform, and a waterfall of sweat had run down his forehead.

Poor Jean’s pregnant belly had strained against her black cotton dress, and her ankles had looked like mottled sausages. Danny had held her arm when Kevin had accepted the American flag that had draped over the old man’s coffin. Jean’s arm had been slippery and fragile, as if the slender bones might snap under his fingers, and she labored to catch her breath. When he’d whispered to her to come back with him to the limo to sit in the air conditioning, she’d looked up at him both stricken and surprised.

“Oh, no, Danny. I couldn’t, but thank you. I’m fine. Really. Please, no, this is your father’s funeral.”

“He’s dead. He won’t care.”

Her mouth had dropped open, and that was the moment caught in the picture, seconds before the ubiquitous piper began to play “Amazing Grace” and they threw handfuls of dirt on the old man’s coffin. Danny thought it would’ve been more fitting to dump shots of Dewar’s in the grave but then figured the old man might come roaring back from hell if he knew they were wasting a drop of his beloved scotch.

Why did Michael go to the trouble to look up this picture? It was a strange choice.

Danny squinted at the photo and tried to decide what Michael might have been looking for in that sea of faces. Some were familiar. Cops for the most part. His coworkers from the paper. Curiosity seekers. A girl with her back to the camera, but something about her carriage reminded him of Kate. Weird, or perhaps he had Kate on his mind.

A face in the corner caught his eye, and he leaned closer. Bartlett Scott. Now that was peculiar. Danny tried to remember if he had spoken to the great man himself and decided he hadn’t. In the photograph, Bartlett Scott looked vigorous, with a full head of blondish hair and a slim build. It reminded Danny of someone, but he couldn’t force the image into his head. He made a note. He needed more information. He knew Bartlett Scott had lost a son
to cancer, and of course, there was the daughter, but he thought there was a second son. Why was Bartlett Scott at the old man’s funeral? He hadn’t come because Thomas Ryan was a kindly man. More likely, he wanted to make sure the old man was dead.

Why had Michael pulled this picture? Did he have suspicions about the great philanthropist of Philadelphia? Bartlett Scott built hospital wings and performing arts centers. The thought of him prowling around a place like Black Velvet made Danny’s skin crawl.
Some are born to endless night
. Was Bartlett Scott talking about himself when he dropped that gem?

This just got weirder and weirder.

Michael must have been nosing around clubs and discovered the Inferno. That much made sense. Danny’s own father had talked about the Inferno—Kevin had admitted that much—but what had he meant? What the hell did Michael find? Some kind of link? Zach had told him the Inferno was management. It provided access. The more money you paid, the more access you got. But what did that mean? He needed to get out of here and talk to Andy. He needed wheels.

He should have talked to Michael when he had the chance, but he’d been too busy popping pills and wallowing in his own misery. God, he loved those pills. He’d line them up and swallow them down until the pain faded to a tolerable ache and life lost its hard edges and bright colors. He’d drifted into a perpetual twilight, like falling into deep snow.

“Can’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?” Michael had said that night when he’d dropped in unannounced and unwanted. Michael had paced the family room and swallowed tequila straight from the bottle.

It was summer, and he’d worn a hideous red, orange, and purple Hawaiian shirt that had gaped open enough to reveal his massive beer gut. Danny had heard Beowulf growl beside him, and it snapped him out of his stupor enough to pay attention.

“You’ve got to stop this shit right now.” Michael had slammed down the bottle. “I love you. Conor and Beth are dead. I’m your brother. I won’t let you kill yourself.” He’d headed for the stairs.

It was the only thing Michael could have done that got Danny running, but he’d tripped on the uneven back steps. The toilet had flushed before he’d reached the second floor. When he’d skidded through the bathroom door, Danny had seen the pill bottles lying empty in the sink. A few of his precious friends had scattered across the floor like jewels against the beige tile.

“Asshole!” He’d started toward Michael. “You have no right—”

Michael had pulled out a .22 from behind and aimed it at him. “I’d rather shoot you than see you like this!”

Beowulf had barreled through the door, and Danny had grabbed his collar. The dog’s momentum had driven him to his knees and dragged him halfway across the bathroom, but he had known if he let go, Beowulf would go for Michael’s throat, and Michael might shoot.

“Put the gun down, Michael.” Danny had forced himself to speak in a rational voice. If he weren’t afraid for Beowulf, he would have launched himself at Michael and hoped for once Michael wouldn’t screw up.

“You don’t know.” Great sobs had racked Michael’s body. “Listen to me. I know things. You have to come back.”

“You know shit. You want me back because I’ve saved your sorry ass for the last sixteen years. Who’s rewriting your column now that I’m not there?”

Michael had slumped as if he’d been kicked. His mouth had opened and closed. The gun had drooped in his hand. “But you have to . . . You can write—”

“I don’t want to write. I want to be left alone.” Danny had pulled himself to his feet and dragged Beowulf with him to the master bedroom. “If you’re going to shoot me, go ahead. Otherwise, let yourself out. Don’t come back.”

They didn’t speak again until Michael had crashed into his duck pond.

Now he knew that Michael was right. He knew things.

Not all accidents are accidents, and Beth and Conor certainly hadn’t been one. Beth and Conor were dead because of him. They
had been driving his car. If he hadn’t fallen apart, he would’ve realized something was wrong about the crash. He should have known.

Beth was in awful shape. Danny hadn’t recognized her at first, and he’d stood for a long time, staring until her features began to rearrange themselves into their familiar lines and angles.

But there hadn’t been a mark on Conor’s body. He’d just been so cold. And Danny had thought if he could only hold him, Conor would grow warm again. His heart would start to beat, and his skin would turn pink instead of that bloodless white.

Familiar pain gnawed at his stomach. He’d let them slip away. He couldn’t hold on to Beth, to Conor. To anyone. The sense of his own impotence overwhelmed him like the thick silence that lay over the house. He bowed his head against the window. Cold. He was cold. He was so good at using smartass remarks or, worse, silence as a shield. Because nobody was ever going to beat him up again. Ever.

A car door slammed, and he jerked up his head.

Theresa’s street hadn’t been plowed, and most of the cars still stood buried under thick drifts. Only Theresa’s footsteps leading away from the house disturbed the pristine white. At the end of the block, though, Danny could see a black Crown Vic parked lengthwise. It blocked the intersection.

Novell walked toward the house alone.

R
avel’s “The Fairy Garden” played, and Mason settled back on his white brocade divan to watch his movie. Though a tad underlit, the film possessed a softer reality, and the gold lights on the ceiling twinkled like fairy lights.

Amazing what you could do with those miniature cameras. You could hide them almost anywhere.

Mason clasped his hands together. It was all so lovely, except that Danny Ryan hadn’t been like he’d imagined. He pictured a meeting of minds, a joining of souls, but it wasn’t that way at all.

Ryan preferred that tarty redhead. Lovely skin, but clearly a harlot. She draped herself around Ryan like a boa constrictor. Mason clicked off the movie in disgust.

The woman came between them. Kate Reid, Robert Harlan’s assistant. She looked oddly familiar. He would have to find out more about her.

It didn’t matter. They’d promised him. They wanted information from Ryan, but after that, Mason had a special place for him. Right here.

Mason looked up at the wings that glittered above his head; they spun slightly in the air. Pale streams of sun bled through the skylight. It reflected off the jewels and sequins and sent shimmers dancing across the room. Fairies come to call.

For a moment, his wall of photographs glowed with an unearthly golden light, and Mason felt his breath catch at the back of his throat. Those eyes. Tears slid down his cheeks.

Here was beauty wrought by the exquisite hand of suffering. That was Ryan’s destiny, his true purpose. It was glorious, really, to bear such torment in life.

And Mason knew it was his purpose to help Ryan find redemption through his pain. It would be his greatest achievement. His masterpiece. The last photograph he would add to his collection. The one he would take when Danny Ryan’s spirit fled his body forever.