The 8th Circle (27 page)

S
am Westfield had been the city editor for as long as Danny could remember. A profane, fire hydrant of a man, Westy always had a red pen jammed behind his ear and a thick stogie that smelled like it had been dipped in horseshit clamped between his yellow teeth.

Danny called him the Cliché, but Westy was also a Haverford School boy who’d gone on to Harvard before he ever set foot in a newspaper office. Interesting street creds, to say the least.

“Christ on a one-legged crutch.” Westy scrunched up his face in disgust when Danny emerged from the subway. “You look fuckin’ grotesque, Ryan. I almost didn’t recognize you.” He coughed and spat a glistening blob of green phlegm on the pavement. “This better be good.”

“Sex, drugs, and serial killing.” Danny watched Westy’s eyes begin to sparkle with glee.

He lit his stogie. “What are we waiting for then? You’d better work out of Andy’s office. We’ll talk there.”

*

“Legal has to look over those,” Westy said when Danny handed him the discs. “Why do I think they’ll have a shit hemorrhage?”

“I’ll give you copies, but I get to hold on to the originals. Anyway, it all ties in with what went down at Club Midnight.”

“You mean the drug bust?”

Unease tightened Danny’s shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

“Major drug bust at Club Midnight. The DEA had the place under surveillance for months.” Westy rolled the stogie around his mouth, then yanked it out and pointed it at Danny like an accusing finger. “Some fuckin’ reporter you are. Don’t even read the goddamn paper.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.” Danny pressed his hands against his forehead. He didn’t imagine what happened at Club Midnight. What happened to Kate. “I was there. There was a shooting.”

“Yeah, shots were exchanged. Some people got shot up. That Bruce Delhomme, you know him? He’s down at Jefferson in a coma. He may or may not ever wake up. In any case, you were in South Philly getting the shit kicked out of you. According to the cops, you were jumped near your sister’s house. Cops found you at Morris under the I-95 ramp beat nearly to death.”

“No. Ask my brother—”

“Where d’you think we got the story? Detective Kevin Ryan of the Philly PD.” Westy regarded him with something approaching pity. “Look, you were beat half to death. How clear d’you remember anything?”

Danny turned away. He couldn’t stand to have Westy look at him like he was a used-up has-been who had to be humored for old time’s sake.

“Tell me what you know about the Inferno, Westy.”

“Jesus Christ, is that what this is about?”

“You were looking into it? You didn’t tell me.”

Westy gave him a grim smile. “The sex club? Why would I? You gave up on investigative reporting. You were our award-winning columnist. Didn’t you ever read your own propaganda? But I had a guy on it.”

Danny shifted in Andy’s chair. Andy couldn’t afford to ignore a story without raising suspicions, but Danny was sure
whomever Westy assigned to it got nowhere. He didn’t think it was a coincidence that Andy offered him the column right after the Sandman case closed. Christ, had it all been an ego fuck? A distraction? Whatever it was, he’d gone for it.

“It’s not just a sex club, Westy. It’s an organization. The cream of society. For a fee, they can get access to . . . you name it.”

“And you’ve got proof?”

Danny pointed to the discs. “Michael Cohen was bringing those to me the night he was killed.”

“And you’ve got confirmation of everything on these discs, Ryan?”

“Jesus Christ. You haven’t even looked at them.”

“I know if you start hurling accusations at people in power, you’d better have some pretty airtight proof and you’d better have collaborating sources. You aren’t a rookie. You know how it works.”

Danny knew Westy was doing his job, but he’d lived the story. “Have legal look at these after we make copies. I think it’s pretty airtight. I spoke to Andy, and he included a confession of sorts. I have financial records of the organization. Initiation fees. Lists of services. It’s all documented along with a full membership list.”

“And?”

“For most people, being members of the Inferno gave them access to kinkier-than-normal sex clubs. Not your standard ménage à trois stuff, but some hardcore S and M, kids—most of them were street kids who looked very young, maybe fifteen—other grotesque shit. But high rankers got more.”

“What do you mean more? More sex? What the hell were they doing? Fucking babies?”

“Possibly, but they ordered off the select à la carte menu, depending on who they were and how far how up the food chain they were. It was all an additional fee, of course.”

“You mean like sex and drugs?”

Danny wondered if Novell felt as old and tired as he felt right now. Where was Novell? He had to track him down. Novell needed to see these discs. He needed to be part of this.

“Danny?”

“First, as far as I can determine, at the top, it was a very select group of very high rollers, and they could get anything, and I mean anything. Not everyone got to be a top member; they had to be approved, but once someone was approved . . . well . . . Say I need investors for my club. Better yet, say I want to kill you. I go to my friends, and they can make it happen. It’s not just about sex. It’s about power. They have it, and they aren’t afraid to use it. Christ, if you want to understand, look at the pictures, watch the DVDs. It’s all there. Andy included a signed and notarized statement of authenticity.”

Westy chomped on the stogy for a moment, his face sober. At last he said, “I’m not going to like what I see, am I?”

The surge punched through his chest. “Not unless you like snuff films.”

D
anny faced Novell across Andy’s desk. “The Inferno. I figured you deserved to see these before they hit the Sunday paper.” He handed Novell the pile of photos. “According to Andy’s confession, there were three of them in the beginning: Bartlett Scott, Robert Harlan, and Andy. Three rich guys looking for a way to have fun on Saturday night. It might have stayed that way except Bartlett Scott had a son with peculiar inclinations.”

“He liked to kill girls.”

“Not just kill them. He liked to skin them.” Danny’s voice faltered, and he thought of Kate. The lost girls. They surrounded him. He could feel their cold breath on the back of his neck.

“Go on.” Novell pulled out a slim flask, but he didn’t open it. He just turned it over and over in his hands, and Danny knew it was only the soothing repetition of the task that kept Novell from leaping from his seat and smashing something.

“When Bartlett Scott discovered what Mason was up to, he was appalled, to be sure, but not so appalled that he was willing to let his son go to jail. It was Bob Harlan who realized there was profit to be made by transporting young girls into the country, using them up sexually and then throwing them to Mason. A virgin is only a virgin once after all, and Big Bob realized there was money to be made in offering special services to very, very
rich, influential people. For a fee. So he brought in Bruce Delhomme to run the day-to-day operation and invested in his restaurants. Nice cover, right? Problem was they misjudged Andy. They figured he was a cokehead without a conscience.” Danny looked up at Novell and saw the scorn in his eyes. “They were wrong, Novell.”

“Were they?” Novell stopped turning the flask.

“They were.” Danny broke off, and it struck him that pictures of Andy and dignitaries he’d met over the years lined the walls. Presidents stretching back to Kennedy, local politicos, movie stars, the famous and nearly famous.

Crowded in among the pictures was one Danny had never paid much mind, though he knew it hung there: a photograph of him at age fifteen with Andy taken the day his essay was published. He’d been stunned because he couldn’t understand why he’d been singled out for anything other than a beating. Andy saved his life.

“He didn’t have to make these discs, Novell. He didn’t have to confess to anything.”

“I guess you don’t know the feds very well,” Novell said. “First to talk. First to walk.”

Danny shook his head. He might have ended up like those poor kids, passed around until they were deemed unusable. Did Andy know Mason never stopped his ritual? Andy swore in his confession that he didn’t know what was happening in those basement rooms until he saw the Tophet DVD. He was told it was a fake at first, but Bruce Delhomme enlightened him because Bruce wasn’t taking the fall alone if something went wrong.

“But there’s no way to prove whether the DVD is real or fake,” Novell said.

“No. I guess you could take it to a pro, but it would be an opinion.”

“And that would be their defense. It’s all fake. You might get them on using underage actors or not. Hard to say.” Novell shrugged. “Basically, the DVD doesn’t count as hard evidence, though the feds will take a hard look at those kids. They’ll try to
get a clear picture of their faces, then put them out to local law enforcement. If anyone’s been looking for them and they get a hit, it’ll be a first step, but that nightmare ought to be seen.”

Danny knew he was right. Maybe someone somewhere cared about those kids, but they had dropped through the gaping holes in the juvenile system. The DVD needed to be seen, but it would never make it to court. “Is Kevin dirty, Novell?”

“Kevin thinks he can keep you alive if he looks the other way.”

“Has he been looking the other way for a while?”

“I don’t think he’s been involved with the Inferno, but he definitely called in some major favors with what went down at Midnight.”

“Westy said the cops found me in South Philly.”

Novell shrugged. “I know. If it means anything, he was trying to protect you.”

Danny tried to understand Kevin’s logic, but it eluded him. “By keeping me in that goddamn hospital room like a prisoner?”

“Stan Witkowski’s dead. There was an explosion at his house. They said he was smoking and it set off his oxygen tank. Him, his wife.”

“Jesus.”

“Our friends were covering up loose ends. Kevin didn’t want you to become a loose end. And he didn’t want you to know the cops reached an agreement with Mason’s family to keep his name out of what went down at the club.”

“They did what?” Danny almost jumped out of his seat.

Novell smiled. “Don’t worry. The feds got to go through Mason’s private room and gather evidence. But it won’t change the outcome of the Sandman killings.”

Danny could see Novell was having fun. “And you won’t tell me anything.”

“Nothing to tell. The feds took over the investigation, and they aren’t talking. Apparently, Delhomme’s operation has been under surveillance by the DEA for some time. The clubs have been shut down.”

“Didn’t you know about it?”

“I’m not in the bureau any more, and it was a deep-undercover operation. Nobody is talking to anyone.” Novell gave him an asthmatic chuckle. “Bureaucracy is a wonderful thing.”

“You’re all insane, Novell. And Kate?”

“She’s gone.”

“She’s dead?” Danny pushed his fingers against his temples. He’d killed her. She’d come after him, and now she was dead.

Novell sighed. “Does it matter? She’s gone. It’s not your fault. It’s what she wanted. She wanted to put a stop to Mason.”

“We had him. I was too slow. It is my fault.”

For the first time, Novell gave him a look of pity. “No. It’s not. Kate made a choice. Now you need to decide what you’re going to do. Having investments in a sex club may look a bit shady for Senator Harlan. He’ll take a hit in the press. I doubt it will do him lasting harm in the long run.” Novell’s face hardened. “So what are you going to do?”

“My father-in-law’s throwing a party tonight at the Pyramid Club. Westy’s already sending a photographer. I thought it would be fun to crash it.”

“W
elcome to the Pyramid Club, gentlemen.” The blonde in the black velvet cocktail dress almost blinded him with her smile. “The reception is upstairs. If I can see your IDs?”

Danny let out a breath. Kevin had been among the cops standing guard downstairs, but Danny managed elude him and slip in among the crowd of press. Now he and Novell took refuge behind the bulky photographer, Freddie Santos. Engulfed in Westy’s coat, the faint horseshit aroma of Westy’s stogies gave Danny a strange comfort. He held out his press pass.

The blonde smiled. “Alex Burton?”

“Right,” Danny said. “That’s me.”

It had taken some doing, but he had managed to filch Alex’s ID and persuaded the photo boys to whip him up a passable facsimile. Thank God this bimbo had no idea that Alex was a woman.

“The senator is making an important announcement tonight,” Novell said to Danny. “You have any idea what that would be?”

Danny nodded. “He wants to run for president.”

“Which is why he wanted the financial records.”

“Look. They’re showing a movie. Why do they always show movies?” Santos pointed to a poster of the senator that sat on a
metal tripod in front of the curving staircase that led up to the main reception area. “
Robert Harlan: A Life in Retrospect.
What does that mean?”

“That he’s an asshole.” Danny glanced at Novell. “Home movies can be pretty boring, don’t you think?” He held out a disc.

Novell’s mouth twitched. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, took the disc, and slipped up the stairs to blend into the crowd.

*

Danny shrank into a corner of the room behind a potted fern and tried to pretend he was enjoying the view out of the twenty-foot window. He could see the reflection of the hors d’oeuvres arranged in silver bowls. Shrimp the size of his thumb, little crab claws, glistening oysters, and so much more—clearly this was the seafood room. In the middle of the table stood an ice sculpture shaped like a battleship. Light sparkled off its surface in an ever-changing prism of color.

It was an all-star crowd. Judges. Philanthropists. Lawyers. Doctors. Eminent do-gooders. Politicians. Danny felt trapped. The real circles of hell surrounded him tonight.

“There’s the man of the hour!”

A jolt ran through him. He didn’t have to look around to know that Robert Harlan had entered the room. The senator’s presence was electric. Danny was surprised that the ice sculpture hadn’t vaporized.

“Senator,” the blonde from downstairs came into the room. “We’re almost ready to begin.”

“In a moment, Janine. Get everyone assembled, please.”

She immediately began to herd people toward the dining room, and Danny winced. Kate’s replacement. She looked as if she were made of plastic, and he thought of the scar under Kate’s right breast. It matched the empty space in his heart. Danny clenched his fists. It was time to stop playing hide and seek. He slid around the fern and blended into the crowd milling out the door.

*

A reverent silence fell over the room when Robert Harlan sailed in, as majestic as any battleship. He shook hands, smiled, and waved to the crowd as the klieg lights snapped on and Danny took refuge behind Freddie Santos’s bulk.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me tonight.”

Danny could see Patsy Harlan, who sat at the head table, her helmet hair so sharp and perfect it was probably bulletproof. There was never much of Patsy in Beth. She was always Daddy’s girl. But Patsy looked good tonight in an artificially tightened way. Miss Georgia Peach was doing her best to glow. Her wide, fake smile looked painful.

“These are trying moral times, indeed, my friends.”

As the senator’s golden baritone bathed the room in its warmth, people clapped and cheered. They bought into the Gospel of Robert Harlan. They soaked it up because he made their fears and prejudices reasonable. In his voice of poisoned syrup, he offered them simpleminded solutions, and they sounded reasonable too.

Wasn’t that what the devil always did?

“We need a stronger America with real family values. And that is why I am forming an exploratory committee to seek the office of president of the United States.”

People stood to applaud, and Robert Harlan beamed, a benevolent sun shining down on his subjects.

Janine said, “Ladies and gentlemen, if you will please direct your attention to the movie screen, we’d like to show you a short film, then the senator will be happy to take questions from the press.”

The lights clicked off, and the room went dark. Danny held his breath.