The Frenzy War (9 page)

“Then our victim isn't Jason Lourdes,” Karol said.

“I didn't say that. Watch.” Mostel opened up a video file that showed the first fingerprint. In seconds, the fingerprint elongated until it matched the second fingerprint. “I used a simple morphing program to stretch the first fingerprint, which magically became the second one.”

“The fingers we saw in the autopsy room were unusually long,” Willy said.

“Stretched, I would say,” Mostel said.

Willy and Karol traded looks.

“All of this got me thinking. I've never seen blood that behaved like this or fingerprints that change properties as if they're fun house mirrors … but I have seen coarse hair like this before.”

Willy stared at the man.
Don't you fucking say it.

“Two years ago—”

Willy threw up his hands. “Oh, man!”

“—during the Manhattan Werewolf murders. We found very similar hairs at several of the homicide sites.”

“Shit,” Karol said.

Mostel frowned. “I can't make a direct comparison, because the FBI confiscated all our materials related to that case. We weren't even allowed to make copies for our own records. I'm afraid to guess what will happen when I submit my report.”

“Maybe the FBI will take over the case,” Karol said.

Willy shook his head. “Uh-uh. A couple of Frisbees showed up during that case. They knew about murders from all over the country that were similar to the ones we were investigating. They were only too happy to drop the whole bag of shit in Tony's lap.”

Mostel clucked his tongue. “I'm studying evidence that could make me famous, but the department would have my ass if I breathed a word of it to anyone.”

“Fame isn't all it's cracked up to be,” Willy said, thinking of Mace.

The taxi parked at the brownstone on Roosevelt Avenue in Queens, and Gabriel scanned the shadows for bodyguards. He counted three.

In the front seat, Micah turned to face him. “I'll wait until you get inside.”

“That's not necessary. I'm protected here. What's the damage?”

Micah waved him off. “Come on.”

“We have to keep up appearances. You've been driving and parking all day, and your records have to seem authentic if you're ever investigated for any reason.”

Sighing, Micah rang up his meter. “I'd really rather forget about it …”

Gabriel handed him three one hundred dollar bills. “Not to worry. Get some sleep. I may need you tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.”

Gabriel got out of the taxi, opened the black metal gate, and trotted up the brownstone's stairs. He rang the doorbell and eyed the buildings around him.

The door opened, and a muscular man stood in the light.

“Hello, Arick.”

“Come on in.” Arick waved to Micah, who drove off.

Gabriel entered the brownstone and hung his coat on a hook as Arick closed and locked the door. Pictures adorned white walls, and polished wooden floors gleamed.

“How many bodyguards are there?”

“Stan's downstairs in the basement, and Marcus is on the second floor.”

“And there are three more outside.”

Arick sighed. “Raphael called …”

“I know.” He squeezed his friend's shoulder. “Thank you.” He walked up the curved stairs, which squeaked beneath his weight. At the top, he saw Marcus leaning against the wall and nodded to him. Then he opened the door to
the master bedroom, and Melissa sat up in the darkness. Two small forms slept in bed with her.

“What's happening?” Melissa said as he switched on the bedside lamp and closed the door. “I know about Jason and Rhonda, but what's really going on?”

Gabriel sat on the edge of the bed beside Damien, one of his sons. Gareth slept on the other side of Melissa. Twins, six years old. “Until we know otherwise, we have to assume they're Torquemadans.”

“In America? I didn't think there were even any left in Europe.”

He removed his tie, tossed it on the floor, and unbuttoned his shirt. “We always knew we'd have to deal with them eventually.”

“Where's Raphael?”

Gabriel nodded at the window. “I bet he and his crew are outside by now.”

Melissa smiled. “That's sweet. Do we really need all this protection?”

Turning, he looked deep into her eyes. “I want you and the boys to stay here tomorrow. I also want you ready to leave on a moment's notice.”

She rolled her eyes. “Where would we go?”

“To my sister's place in Canada.”

“Canada's a big country.”

Gabriel shrugged. “It will be a nice trip.”

“How long would we stay?”

“Until I decide it's safe to come back.”

Willy and Karol sat eating in a Thai restaurant on Twenty-second Street and Broadway.

“Now isn't this better than eating a frozen dinner in your apartment?” Willy said.

“Who says I was going to eat a frozen dinner? I know how to cook. I do it all the time.”

Willy aimed his chopsticks in her direction. “After a fifteen-hour day? No way. You were going Lean Cuisine; I know it. This is better.”

She gave him half a smile. “Maybe.”

“If this case buries our careers, they'll split us up. You'll miss me.”

“Maybe.” Her smile broadened. “Probably.”

“Probably? Definitely. I'd miss you.”

“Let's discuss the case.”

“We've been talking about it all day. I'm tired of talking about it.”

“You think Mostel believes Jason was the Manhattan

Werewolf?”

“If he does, he needs to see a shrink.”

“You said yourself the Manhattan Werewolf wasn't human.”

“He wasn't a teenage werewolf, either.”

Karol chewed her food. “Hey, whatever happened to that Colombian girl you were seeing?”

“I don't know. The heat died down.”

“And the Dominican woman. What was her name?”

“Lucy. She wanted to be too serious.”

“Before that it was the Korean.”

“Yung? You're forgetting Karen, the white chick.”

“I'm not counting one-night stands.”

“Why are you trying to spoil our first date?”

“This isn't a date. It's getting a bite to eat while we work a long shift.”

“It could be a date,” Willy said under his breath.

“D-O-G.”

“Since this isn't a date, I don't have to pay for you, right?”

As Willy entered the squad room for Manhattan Homicide South with Karol, he saw Landry conferring with Sergeant Don Gibbons in Landry's glass-enclosed office. Landry had shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and looked weary. Gibbons, who had already passed his retirement eligibility, stood in a crisp uniform. Landry beckoned to the detectives as they hung their coats on the backs of their chairs. Willy gestured for Karol to go first.

“No thanks. I'm not falling for that.” She gestured for him to go first.

Smiling, he complied.

“I'm ready to go home,” Landry said.

“That makes three of us,” Willy said.

“Give me a rundown on your reports before you write them so one of us can actually get out of here.”

Willy sat before the desk. “We interviewed the parents of the vic and our missing person and their closest friends.
Jason and Rhonda seem like two normal kids, very together, not troublemakers. Rhonda had no previous boyfriends or jealous would-be suitors. Jason never ran with a gang. The ME and Forensics have some pretty fucked-up shit to report, but that's on them.”

Landry sat on the edge of the desk. “I just read By-rnes's report. I'm classifying it. Public Affairs can decide how much to reveal. What have I got to look forward to from Forensics?”

“Aggressive blood cells, mutant hair, and magic fingerprints.”

Landry blew air out of his cheeks.

“By the way, Gabriel Domini shows real signs of interfering with this investigation.”

“That's an exaggeration,” Karol said.

“It's my impression—the
correct
impression. Every kid we interviewed said the same things about Jason and Rhonda. The exact same things. They were coached by someone; I feel it. And Gabriel had a real sway over Deidre Wilson. She didn't care what we had to say, but she hung on his every word.”

Rising, Landry slipped into his jacket. “Get some sleep as soon as you finish your reports. I want you rested for tomorrow.”

“How rested?”

“As rested as you can be without being late.”

Mace awoke at 12:30. Cheryl was sitting in bed beside him, the glow from her laptop reflected in her reading glasses.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking the headlines.”

“And?”

“Both papers have Rhonda's face on the cover. The
News
says, ‘Police Seek Sword-Wielding Kidnappers.' The
Post
says, ‘Ritual Slaying in Occult Bookstore' and ‘Police Seek Satanic Kidnappers.'”

Mace rolled away and closed his eyes. “At least there's nothing about the Manhattan Werewolf.”

“Well, no one else knows about the Blade of Salvation, do they?”

Mace pretended not to hear her, and then he pretended to be asleep.

S
itting on the sofa in the living room, Tim zipped through the channels on the wide-screen TV while Samuel stood at the window, peeking around the curtain. Tim had assigned Kyle to watch the backyard from the kitchen.

“Five hundred channels and what do we get? Infomercials and cartoons. What kids stay up until 2:00 A
M
on a school night?”

“There are different time zones,” Samuel said. “They gotta entertain kids all over the country. All over the
world
”

“You telling me they're watching
Scooby-Doo
in China and Nicaragua? In English?”

“How should I know what language they're watching” it in?”

Sighing, Tim returned to Manhattan Minute News and Cheryl Mace's report on the murder and kidnapping
at Synful Reading. “Doesn't she ever get tired of saying the same thing over and over?”