The Night Falconer (7 page)

I too began to wonder where “regular” people were this afternoon. What was Marcia doing back in Charlottesville? Tending to her garden? Visiting an elderly acquaintance? Famous in her neighborhood for keeping track of everyone’s troubles, Marcia always found the time. Who tended to such needs here in the city where the enormity of human heartbreak and the riotous pace made even knowing your neighbors difficult?

I finished the candy and the sports section, and had just started in on the national and international news when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.

“They’re coming out the front door,” Nicole said.

The Mercedes’ engine burst to life at the back of the building. I hadn’t seen a driver come out of the building or down the alley. Maybe the chauffeur had been sleeping in the car. As the car slid down the alleyway, however, I noticed it was the young man we’d met inside driving. There must have been another exit back where the car was parked, not visible from the alley.

“I’m out of the car and moving to intercept them,” Nicole said.

The Mercedes roared past my observation post, obviously in a hurry.

“I see a car coming out of the alley,” Nicole said.

“I’m right behind him.” I tossed my newspaper and candy wrapper over the rim of the dumpster and hustled it down the wall as he turned the corner onto the street.

“Okay. I’m on them,” she said and hung up.

A few seconds later, I rounded the end of the building to find Nicole at the curb in conversation with Dominic Watisi and his wife, who were standing next to the Mercedes. The bodyguard was out of the car, trying unsuccessfully to use his body to shield them from talking.

Physically, Watisi was not a large man. But he gave the impression of being one. Of average weight and a head shorter than I, he wore a tan silk coat and tie. His brown wrists and hands contrasted with the ends of the white cuffs of his shirt showing from beneath his jacket. His dark eyes looked almost luminous.

“You people certainly are persistent,” he was saying as I approached. The bodyguard frowned and stiffened at my presence.

“That’s because you make it hard to talk to you,” I said.

“I’ve no interest in discussing the Grayland Tower situation with anyone but my legal counsel,” he said, prodding his wife toward the car, the back door of which was now being held open by the younger man, who glared at me with a murder one stare.

“That why you’re threatening the other private investigator working the case?” Nicole asked.

Watisi paused for a moment, his hand on the door. “I’m doing no such thing.”

“Well someone is,” I said. “They’re trying to stick a knife into her business.”

Watisi looked perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

He listened for a moment while I told him about the threat and the incident at the airport.

“These things are linked then, you believe, this problem with the animals at Grayland, the phone threat, and the airport crime?” he asked.

“Looks that way, yes.”

He looked over at Nicole then back at me. “What do you people have to do with any of this?”

“We’re both falconers. Ms. Barnes and her client thought we might be able to help find this man with the owl.”

Watisi’s brow narrowed at the mention of Dr. Lonigan. “Yes, I read about the supposed sightings in the paper too. You say you are a falconer?”

“Yes.”

“I am a hunter, you know. But with a rifle. Not with birds.”

“So I’ve heard. We saw the big cats on the wall inside.”

“I’ve seen this falconry, of course. It is a popular sport in Egypt where I grew up. For centuries, a pastime for princes.”

“Yes.”

“And ruled by a code of chivalry.”

“It carries that association.”

“For knights and noblemen and those who would stay true.” He nodded. “Would an owl be worthy of a falconer?”

“That depends,” I said. “A better question might be, if it were the right bird, would a falconer be worthy of the owl?”

The developer looked at his watch. “I’m very sorry to hear of the threats against Ms. Barnes. But the idea I would have anything to do with knives or barn owls or whatever happened to the poor creatures from the Doctor’s building is ridiculous.”

“A Great Horned Owl,” I said.

“Yes, whatever. I pay for top security at Grayland, as I do at all of my properties. I’m sorry that Dr. Lonigan and some of her fellow owners have decided to turn our small dispute into a public spectacle. I’m sorry all of you have to get so involved and waste so much time on the matter as well.”

“We’re not wasting time if it turns out we find someone who is making threats and murdering animals,” Nicole said.

“I assure you, young lady, neither is the case with me. Now, if you’ll please excuse us.”

Watisi climbed in the back of the Mercedes.

Nicole put her hand on the edge of the car for a moment. “Just one more question,” she said. “You have any pets yourself, Mr. Watisi?”

“What?”

“You know. Dogs, cats, hamsters.”

He failed to answer, but Mrs. Watisi smiled from across the seat. “Our nine year old daughter Alvina is a budding zoologist, I’m afraid,” she said. “We have two dogs—Pomeranians—three hamsters, a turtle, and eight species of aquarium fish at last count, I think.”

“But no cats.”

“No cats.”

Igor, or whatever his name was, almost slammed the door on Nicole’s hand with a disgusted look on his face. He climbed in front and they sped off, leaving nothing but a trail of carbon monoxide.

“That was fruitful,” I said.

“So much for animal-torturing serial killers.” Nicole said.

7

I deduce they’re hiding something,” I said as I wheeled the Boxster back downtown.

“You think?” Nicole rolled her eyes, reaching over the seat and pulling her laptop out of her bag. “Places are starting to close down for the holiday. I need to find a fast internet connection laptop so I can really start looking into this guy’s finances and other dealings. Something that isn’t wireless.”

“Hopefully we can get you set up back in the apartment where we’re supposed to be saying.”

“What are you going to be doing?”

“Darla wants to meet me at the Central Park precinct before the shift changes. There’s a detective there she wants me to meet. Later on, I’ve got the guard in the lobby to talk to. After that, we’ll see what you find out about Watisi, and if I think the guard makes any sense at all, we can take over Darla’s stakeout duty in the park. If we can find this idiot with the owl, we might save ourselves a lot of trouble.”

“What about asking a few more questions of our client?”

“Why? Don’t you trust her?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Me either. But she’s not going anywhere for the time being.”

“You want me to run a check on her too? See what I can find?”

“Go for it.” I said.

* * * * *

NYPD’s old Central Park precinct building on 86
^th
and Transverse Road looks like a cross between a gingerbread house and a brick and stone fortress. I’d never visited the tired looking edifice during my years on the force. No occasion to.

I wouldn’t be visiting today either. The building was supposed to be undergoing renovations and the word was they might go on forever. The precinct was now being housed next door in a big red structure that looked more like a Broadway theater, complete with marquee sign, than a police station.

Ruminate all you want about the ironies of the park itself, eight hundred acres of nature wedged in the middle of the metropolis—a manufactured wilderness. If I had it to do over again, working as patrol officer, I’d have applied to work here.

The reception area and waiting room were surprisingly empty. A lull in the busy weekend crime blotter, no doubt. I knew I was in trouble, though, when the desk sergeant, a burly mound of a man with a shock of red hair, turned to look up at us as Darla and I entered.

Warren Fitzhugh had been working the streets back when Toronto and I were still detectives. A grin spread across his face as soon as our eyes met.

“Hey, hey, hey. Would you look who’s here.”

Darla had already told me about her visit to the precinct a couple of days before to talk about the Lonigan case. I didn’t expect to be running into a ghost from my past like Fitzhugh.

“Don’t I know this guy?” He cocked his head, shifting his gaze between me and Barnes. “Frank Pavlicek. Didn’t you used to be a real cop?”

“Some people used to think so.”

He lumbered off his stool behind the bullet-proof glass, depressing a switch that clicked open a heavily fortified door. Stepped out to greet me and pumped my hand so long I thought I might develop arthritis before he gave it back to me. “Hey, you lost a few pounds since I last saw you.”

“Blame it on the country air.”

“Sure. You’re where now, North Carolina? Charlotte or something like that?”

“Charlottesville, Virgina.”

“Right. The wife wants us to retire down to Carolina. Get out of this friggin cold. What, you working with Ms. Barnes here now?”

“Just lending her a hand on a case.”

He glanced at Darla, who was watching both of us with a bemused half-smile on her face. “Bringing in some old- school talent, huh Barnesy? I’m impressed.”

She shrugged. “You know I just lie awake nights, Sergeant, trying to figure out ways to impress you.”

“Don’t I wish. Hey …” He looked back at me. “You’re not talking about this Kitty Hitter deal, are you?”

Word had obviously gotten around.

“Kitty Hitter?”

“Yeah. That’s what Marbush, the Lieutenant who took the report, dubbed Barnesy here’s case involving some woman doctor who claims a guy with a bird killed her cat and a bunch of other pets.”

“Cute,” Darla said.

“Yeah, but at least the doc went and hired you so now the NYPD can rest easy.” He turned back to me. “That’s not the case you’re talking about though, right Frank?”

“That would be it,” I said.

Fitzhugh stared at me. “I’ll be damned.”

Darla added: “Actually, Frank’s a falconer. Works with big birds and stuff. Doctor Lonigan thought his expertise might be useful in our investigation. And we stopped by because we’ve got an important development to report,” she said.

“Yeah?” The big cop eyed her for a moment. Then he motioned toward the squad room in back. “Why don’t you two come on back.”

He punched a combination into a keypad by the door. It clicked open and we followed him into a large, brightly lit hallway that opened up to a great room full of desks, some of which were sectioned off by partitions.

“You guys want something to drink?”

We both declined.

“Smart,” he said. “Last time I tried to drink the battery acid they call coffee around here, I thought my ulcer was going to explode.”

We rounded a corner and passed a room where four or five other cops were meeting. The space was filled with desks, phones, and computer terminals, all snaked together by what appeared to be miles of cable taped and bundled into walk-overs on the floor.

“Looks like a hacker’s convention,” I said.

Fitzhugh addressed the room. “Hey everybody, look what the cat dragged in.” He tried not to break out laughing.

“Stop,” Darla said.

“Ms. Barnes has a new partner on the Kitty Hitter thing. Mr. Frank Pavlicek, also formerly of the NYPD.”

A few mildly curious looks. A muscular Latino man in dark pants and a white collared shirt stared in our direction.

“Hey, Pavlicek, ain’t you heard? Jim Carey already done the movie.”

Guffaws rippled across the room.

Fitzhugh waved his hand. “You guys are hopeless,” he said. Turning back to us: “C’mon. I’ll take you to meet Marbush.”

We moved on down the corridor toward the back of the building.

“You just get into town, Frank?” Fitzhugh asked.

“First thing this morning.”

“This doctor must be getting real serious about her missing feline.”

“Something happened out at the airport,” Darla offered. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Okay.”

“I went to pick up Frank and his daughter, who works with him. When we got back to my van, someone had broken the glass and stuck a Bowie knife through my kid’s car seat.”

“Christ, what’s the world coming to.” Fitzhugh stopped and gave us both a hard stare. “You piss somebody off?”

“Maybe.” She told him about the threat she’d received and the note she’d found in the car.

“Kind of moves us a little ways beyond the pet detective scenario, doesn’t it,” he said.

We all looked up as a tall woman with short red hair came out of a doorway ahead.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Fitzhugh said. “We got visitors.”

The woman glanced up from the file she was holding. “Yes?”

“You remember Darla Barnes. And this is Frank Pavlicek. Also ex-NYPD, living in Virginia now. Folks, Lieutenant Stacy Marbush.”

She stepped forward and shook our hands. There was a blankness to her face, the mask of one who had been on the job so many years she’d learned to bury her emotions. Her fingers were pale and gripped mine firmly.

“Got a new case? Not more cat stuff I hope.”

Darla smiled. “No. Still working the kitty thing.”

“Jesus.” Appraising me. “What, you’ve gone and brought in more talent?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Look, people, I’d really like to help with this, um, matter. You’re welcome to look at my report. But right now I’ve got a lead on a couple of rape cases.”

“There’s been a more serious development,” Fitzhugh said.

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow.

Fitzhugh excused himself to return to his post in front.

Darla began telling the lieutenant about our discovery at the airport. About halfway through, Marbush motioned us into her office. We sat in chairs beside a metal table she was using as a desk.

“So you’re trying to tell me you think these two things are related? Some doctor with a crazy bird story in Manhattan and your knife thrower in Queens?”

“Yeah. We think they may be related.”

“Okay. What else, exactly, do you expect me to do about this?”

“I don’t know,” Darla said. “Maybe nothing. We just wanted to keep you informed. Frank here and his daughter, who’s also a private investigator, may be mounting some surveillance in the park, hoping to spot this falconer people claim to have seen.”