Antenna Syndrome (33 page)

“Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

“I put my car in the ditch on the I-87 while chasing
your would-be assassin. Could you lend me one of yours to get back
into town?”

“Take the Tesla. In fact, you can keep it. It’s been
to the body shop three times and they still can’t give me the shade
of yellow I want.”

“What’s wrong with it? Yellow is yellow.”

“It’s just wrong.”

“Listen to you, talking like an artist. Maybe you
have more in common with Marielle than you know.”

Jordan looked thoughtful for a moment. “What was
silent in the father speaks in the child.”

He walked us out to the driveway and retrieved the
registration from the car’s glove compartment. He signed it over to
me and dropped the keys in my hand.

Major went to fetch his dog from the Mercedes. “Hey,
Werewolf’s gone!” he shouted.

“I thought he was conked out.” In the back seat of
the Mercedes, the towel he’d lain on was stained with a few spots
of blood. But the windows were open and the dog was gone.

We heard a scream from behind the house. We broke
through the hedge and onto the pool patio. There we found Werewolf
behind the cabana, draped over Gretel and going at her full piston.
Vivien stood watching aghast. Nearby, Samantha had leashed a
growling Hansel.

“Do something,” Vivien said. “Make him stop.”

“Don’t look at me,” Major said. “Last time I
interrupted something like this, I needed a dozen stitches in my
hand.”

“Come on.” I shooed everyone back toward the house.
“Nature will take its course. This’ll be over in a minute.”

Jordan came out with another scotch in hand. “What’s
all the excitement?”

Before anyone volunteered any salacious details,
Gretel trotted out from behind the cabana and went to Vivien.
Moments later, Werewolf ambled out. I could have sworn he was
grinning jowl to jowl. He went to a water dish near the back door
and noisily drained it.

Major clucked his tongue and led Werewolf away. I
said goodbye to everyone and followed him to the Tesla.

“Sweet!” Major sat Werewolf on a towel in the rear
seat, then slid into the front passenger seat. He ran his hand over
the skin-colored leather interior. “Soft as the down on a prom
queen’s belly.”

I disengaged and stowed the charging cable. The car
started with barely a hum, a stark contrast to the throaty rumble
of my Charger. I put it in gear and drove off. Its silence was
deceiving. The Tesla’s electric drive was rated at over 400 hp,
taking less than five seconds to go from 0-60. I kept a light foot
on the pedal.

I phoned my lawyer on the way back into town. For
once, Lutz wasn’t too busy to listen for more than a minute. I
caught him up on the last four days and told him I’d volunteered to
turn myself in to the NYPD. He agreed to rendezvous with me at the
precinct in an hour.

After dropping Major off in Hell’s Kitchen, I met my
lawyer at Midtown South and surrendered to the police. But Lutz,
armed with a carefully worded statement and the knowledge that the
Police Commissioner was already apprised of my case, was able to
secure immediate bail on my own recognizance.

We’d just come out of the hearing room when I got a
call from Major. “You won’t believe what just happened,” he
said.

“What?”

“When I got back to the office, the postal carrier
was opening the mail boxes in the lobby. Just as I arrived, a huge
red spider jumped out of your mail slot, right onto his face. The
guy collapsed on the spot, froth pouring out his mouth. The spider
made a jump for me too, but Werewolf snapped it out of mid-air.”
Major’s voice broke. “He went into convulsions right away. There
was nothing I could do.”

“Major, I’m so sorry.”

Major cleared his throat. “He was getting old. But
when you look at today, he sure went out in a blaze of glory.”

“How’s the mailman?”

“Tongue swelled up like a sausage, almost choked him
to death. I had to clear my Beretta and stick the barrel down his
throat to keep his air passage open until 911 arrived. Imagine what
that looked like when the medics walked in.”

I thanked him for the warning and promised to check
in later. I recalled last night at the clinic, when I’d overheard
Globik telling the Russian that Buzz had planted spiders in my
nest. I got a police escort home, accompanied by an exotic-pet
handler to look for the assassins Buzz had left for me. He found
two giant spiders – one in my medicine cabinet, one under my bed –
and took them off to the gas chambers. I was told again not to
leave the building until my lawyer advised that I was free to do
so.

I downed two shots of scotch after which, emboldened
by the powers invested in 12-year-old whiskey, I found Darcia’s
number and phoned to ask if she’d join me in a dinner of take-out
from a restaurant of her choice. One thing led to another, and the
night passed in a blur of sensations pleasant enough to make me
forget most of what I’d seen in the past 24 hours.

SATURDAY

Chapter 57

I woke up to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee, after
which I was dragged from Darcia’s bed and given an X-rated shower.
House arrest was an insult to my dignity, but with a warden like
Darcia, who was I to question the court’s judgment?

After breakfast, I checked the news. Front page of
The Confidant
pictured Jordan holding Marielle in his arms,
the headline proclaiming
Father-Daughter Team Crushes Underworld
Operation
. It stretched the facts a bit, but that’s what
tabloids did. The story told how Marielle had infiltrated an
organized crime ring engaged in illegal organ transplants,
industrial theft, extortion and terrorism.

It was implied that Jordan had masterminded the
whole operation, assisted by a private investigator who wished to
remain anonymous. Fine by me. I could live without
vengeance-seeking Russian mobsters kicking down my door in the
middle of the night.

Later in the day I got a call from Lutz regarding my
status with the NYPD. “The CSU went nuts over the head and body
parts you gave to the upstate cops. They’d never seen anything like
it. Preliminary forensics are in, and your story’s looking good.
The bodies of Walker, Boyle and Mundt all had wounds unique to the
claws and jaws of that thing you killed. They’ve fast-tracked the
DNA evidence to seal the deal but, unofficially, you’ll be cleared
in a day or two.”

“What about Jack and Tatiana?”

“The DA’s weighing multiple charges against the pair
of them – rape, blackmail, grand theft, extortion, influence
peddling and murder – either as primary, co-conspirator or
accessory. Thirty years apiece, easy.”

He told me the story Jack had spilled. Race track
debts had long ago forced him into working for the Russian mob as a
courier of hot goods between thieves and Vladimir Rossikoff. The
art dealer had funneled over a million dollars’ worth of stolen
paintings,
objets d’art
, gold coins, rare stamps and antique
furniture into the art market.

But instead of escaping debt, Jack’s continued love
affair with the ponies had sunk him even deeper. Enlisting Tatiana,
he’d developed a racket to blackmail her wealthy paramours. At the
request of his Russian handlers, he’d planted electronic bugs in
Jordan’s cars and home so the
bratva
could eavesdrop on the
mayoralty candidate.

After Marielle had executed her disappearance with
the help of Buzz and Crabner, Jack had seized the opportunity to
double down by issuing his own ransom demand. He’d faked a Russian
accent pretending to be the kidnapper, and Tatiana had supplied the
scream in the phone call I’d overheard with Vivien.

But the bugs planted in Jordan’s house had alerted
the Russians to the scam right from the get-go, and they’d wanted a
slice. Pulling Globik’s strings, they’d assigned Buzz and the
hornet swarm to complete the ransom exchange at Ronkonkoma
lake.

Hoping to salvage something from a scam he’d lost
control of, Jack had suggested stealing Marielle’s paintings while
Vivien was out of the house. The Russians agreed, and tapped
Crabner for the job. Rossikoff would fence the paintings, and Jack
would split the take with the
bratva
. It was a win-win all
around.

But with Jack’s confession in hand, the police had
since arrested Rossikoff and recovered Marielle’s paintings. The
art dealer was going to prison too.

“Hey, another call incoming,” Lutz said. “Gotta go.
I’ll call you when I get the official word.”

~~~

I spent the rest of the day lying low with Darcia,
subsisting on a diet of nutritious snacks, multi-vitamins and
languorous sex. Ultimately, it became too much of a good thing and
I grew anxious for some fresh air.

“Honeymoon’s over already?” Darcia pretended to
pout, but it was hard for her to look sullen when she was
glowing.

“I need to go see somebody.”

“You can’t leave. You’ve got a court order that says
so.”

My iFocals hummed with an incoming call. It was my
lawyer. The Assistant DA, who’d been monitoring my case at the
Commissioner’s request, had just phoned Lutz to say they were
dropping my bail conditions. I was free to leave my building.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Darcia said. “What if that
guy Buzz had friends? Worse yet, relatives…”

“I’ll take my chances.” I dressed, pocketing my keys
and pistol. The thought of Buzz with a large family of cousins was
too frightening to entertain. I gave her a cavalier kiss. “Keep the
home fires burning.”

“Sure. Maybe I’ll take a cold shower.”

I took the elevator down to the garage, got confused
for a minute looking for a Charger that wasn’t there, and climbed
into the Tesla. The Charger had been towed from the I-87 to a body
shop in Newburgh for a little work and would be back in my hands in
due course.

I stopped at a liquor store and bought a 40-ouncer
of Black Bush on the way to the office. When I showed up in the
Tesla, Mr. Kim frowned upon my new electric car, probably thinking
of the gas he’d no longer sell me. I crossed the street to my
building, keyed myself in and went down to the super’s office.

Major had his feet on the desk, watching TV as he
rolled a joint the size of a cigar. His expression was somber. He
looked like a man who’d lost his best friend.

“I’m really sorry about Werewolf.” I gave him the
Black Bush.

He cradled the bottle in his arms a moment like a
long-lost baby. He fetched glasses from a cabinet and poured us
each two fingers. We had a taste and then he lit his joint and blew
a near-fatal cloud of secondary smoke my way. He drained his glass
and poured another.

“Nothing like an Irish wake to see an old pal off. I
don’t suppose you knew Werewolf was part Irish wolfhound.”

“I did.” He’d told me so, dozens of times. And if
you could believe Major, some of Werewolf’s great-great-ancestors
had driven the snakes out of Ireland, survived the Potato Famine
and invented Guinness.

He clinked his glass against mine. “A fighter to the
end, God bless the old hound. I hope to go down swinging
myself.”

“I’m sure you will.” We hoisted a few more in
Werewolf’s memory and shared the rest of that hemp cigar. By the
time it was gone, so were we. I hadn’t been this anaesthetized
since I’d gone under for surgery.

I stayed with Major until he passed out around
eleven. I slung him over my shoulders, carried him down the hall to
his efficiency apartment and dumped him on his bed to sleep it off.
I didn’t trust myself to drive so I left the Tesla at Mister Kim’s
and took a cab back to my condo.

There was a note under my door from Darcia.
Sleep
tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.
Some sense of humor. Did she
not want me to sleep at all? But after I’d gone though the
apartment, pistol in one hand, can of DDT in the other, I satisfied
myself that I was home alone.

I took three aspirin, drank a gallon of water and
went to bed.

MONTHS LATER

Chapter 58

I woke up in a cold sweat, something crawling on me.
I flung the covers off and sprang from bed. I stood in the door of
my bedroom, pistol in hand, looking around the empty room, feeling
foolish. A ramp of sun slanted in from the window. Tiny motes of
dust, evidence of my poor housekeeping, floated in the silence.

I showered away the residue of the bad dream. Ever
since my episode in the cave with Buzz, I’d had recurring
nightmares. Later that day, when Darcia came off her shift at the
pharmacy, I told her about it.

I thought she might suggest a remedy, but all she
said was, “You’ve got an over-active imagination.”

“Is there a cure for that?”

“No, but there’s a channel.” She gave me a look.

Later in the day we crawled out of bed and drove out
to Long Island for dinner at the home of Harris Jordan, AKA, the
Mayor. Last month’s election had given him a landslide victory.
Political pundits around the country were calling it a tectonic
shift in New York municipal politics. They cited Jordan’s vision of
the city’s future as being the best of previous administrations –
Koch, Giuliani and Bloomberg – all rolled into one.

A dozen cars filled the driveway. Jordan met us at
the door, took our coats and led us into the living room. Vivien
was there in a cocktail dress, and although she directed the
activities of the caterers, it seemed pretty obvious she was more
the lady of the house than an employee. Or was I just reading too
much into the large engagement ring on her hand, and Jordan’s
adoring gaze?

Jordan introduced us all around. Natalie’s date was
a handsome young attorney named Bret from the Mayor’s office.
Marielle came wheeling up in a motorized chair and pulled up the
cuffs of her slacks to show me her state-of-the-art prosthetic
limbs. Her companion was a scientific type with an unpronounceable
Czech name, one of the Harvard medical team who’d given her new
limbs. She pulled my head down to her level and kissed me.