Ghosts of War (14 page)

He studied Ginny as she sipped at her drink. “Why did you come back, Ginny?” he asked her, his voice low.

She watched him for a moment, searching his face for any clue as to the tenor of his question. When he didn't give anything away, she shrugged. “To see you,” she said, and reached for his discarded packet of cigarettes on the coffee table. She drew one out of the packet with her long, white fingers and pulled the ignition tab. It flared briefly, and she placed it, a little shakily, between her lips.

“It's been a long time.”

“Yes, I know. But I simply knew I needed to see you. I was thinking about old times, about old friends. That's all.” She smiled, but her eyes told the real story.
I needed to see if you could fix me.

Gabriel would have laughed, if it wouldn't have seemed so heartless. He hadn't been able to fix himself, let alone someone else. “I'm dangerous, Ginny. Dangerous to be around. You'd be better off finding someone else with whom to dredge up the past.”

“Perhaps,” she replied airily. “But it isn't about the past, is it, Gabriel? It's about the present. About the here and now. You and me, and whatever's going on out there, with those raptors. And besides”—she flicked the ash from the tip of her cigarette into a half-empty coffee mug—”it beats swanning around the apartment all day getting drunk.”

Gabriel couldn't repress his smile. “What happened to you?” he asked, and then immediately regretted it. Was it too much?

She shrugged. “Life. That's what happened. Cold, hard reality. It's a terrible world out there, Gabriel,” she said, as if that was enough, as if that told him everything he needed to know about her. That she had faced reality, and it had proved too much to bear. He thought there had to be something more to it than that.

Ginny could see he was bemused by her answer. He could tell that from the wry expression on her face, the slightly wonky smile on her lips as she deftly turned the question back on him. “And what about you? About that…
suit?”
She waved her hand to indicate the apparel he was wearing.

Gabriel didn't meet her gaze. What about the suit? He'd done it to preserve his identity, to separate himself from the persona that everyone knew, the Gabriel Cross that lived in Long Island and threw parties and didn't care about anything but himself. He'd done it to keep the people he cared about safe. And where had that gotten him?

“It's…a disguise, I suppose,” he said, and he knew it was much more than that. It was another life, another attempt to cope with the world. It was a fresh start.

Ginny laughed. “We all have masks of one kind or another, Gabriel,” she replied cryptically, and downed the rest of the bourbon in her tumbler. Gabriel watched her shiver as the alcohol hit her palate. She cocked her head, her eyes suddenly bright. “So, what now?” She asked this as though it was a given, as if the events of the previous evening and her knowledge of his secret life meant that she was now inextricably involved in whatever would happen next. Her smile told him that she knew he wouldn't be able to resist.

Gabriel glanced out of the window. The sun was coming up over the city. Birds wheeled over the rooftops. In the distance, dirigibles stirred the clouds, and biplanes dragged vapor trails across the sky. At least the fog had begun to lift.

He looked back toward Ginny, who was watching him expectantly. “I don't know,” he said, his voice hard, firm. “I'm hoping Donovan can turn up something regarding the dead man we found in that apartment. As for the raptors…well, we're no closer to knowing what it is they're up to.”

“What about the bird and the things you found inside that one you destroyed last night?”

Gabriel shrugged. “All that tells us is that we're dealing with someone very dangerous indeed. Someone who has a notion of how to marry science with the dark arts. We've still no real idea of what it is they're up to, or why they're abducting people from the streets.”

Ginny took a long draw on her cigarette. “Then we need to come up with a way to find out,” she said determinedly. “If only we were able to talk to one of the victims, to find out where they were being taken. As I see it, the abductees are the only ones who know the truth.” She flicked the ash from the end of her cigarette, and it was at that moment that a plan began to take shape in the back of Gabriel's mind.

D
onovan hulked behind his desk, brooding. It was too early: he needed more coffee. He dragged at the butt of his cigarette, sucking the harsh fumes down into his lungs, enjoying the sensation of the nicotine flooding into his bloodstream. Around him, the precinct was already buzzing with life.

Donovan had hardly slept. When he'd finally arrived home after the encounter with the raptors—and after staying on to brief Mullins regarding his plans for the apartment that had belonged to the missing British spy—he'd found Flora asleep on the sofa. She'd waited up for him. His dinner was in the oven, now burnt and dry.

He had gently woken her, slipped his arms beneath her, and carried her up the stairs to their bedroom.

Then, unable to sleep, he had crept back down to the kitchen, where he had sat with a packet of cigarettes and a bottle of bourbon to consider everything that had occurred. It was only hours later, just before dawn, that he had climbed into bed, groggy from the tiredness and alcohol, for what amounted to a couple of hours of unsatisfactory unconsciousness.

There would be no berating from Flora when he eventually saw her later that day, however—he had left her still asleep in bed that morning, creeping out of the apartment so as not to disturb her. She had learned long ago that the life of a policeman's wife was an extraordinary one—or at least that she would have to learn to deal with an extraordinary amount of disappointment—as, when engaged with a case, Donovan was very much the absentee from the marriage.

It pained him, he thought, more than it did Flora. Not that she didn't care, but more that she had resigned herself to it, and that she accepted her husband for who and what he was—a police inspector in one of the busiest cities in the world. She was proud of him, she reminded him regularly, for standing up for what was right, for upholding justice in this most unjust of times. He loved her for that, for that unqualified faith she had in him, for seeing the goodness in him, even when he couldn't see it himself.

For his part, all Donovan wanted to do was be a better husband. He couldn't always see that, to Flora, that meant something different than simply being around. Because if he was, if he gave up everything he believed in to be by her side, he would be a lesser man in her eyes.

She'd told him that the day before their wedding, all those years ago, when he'd taken her to one side and explained that he was thinking of leaving the force. She'd taken his hand and resolutely told him that she loved him and that he had to do what he thought was right—and that she would continue to love him even when he wasn't around.

She'd been true to her word. For all those years, she'd stood by him and supported him, and never once mentioned the ruined dinners or missed dates, the late nights or the injuries. One day, she maintained, he would be done with the police force, with chasing criminals and catching serial killers. And when that day came, then they would make up for lost time. In the meantime, he was to continue to help people the best way he knew how. And if that meant she had to grow used to the disappointments, well, that was what being a policeman's wife was all about. She'd known that before she'd ever accepted his ring.

Nevertheless, it didn't stop Donovan struggling with pangs of guilt. He supposed it never would.

Donovan stared at the clock. All through the night he'd been racking his brain for that sudden flash of inspiration, that insight he needed to get the breakthrough in the case he was searching for. He was clearly missing something. Something that should have been obvious to him, but was, for the time being, remaining elusive. Some fact or implication, some link he just couldn't see.

This Jerry Robertson, the British spy he was supposedly trying to locate—there was a bigger story behind that, Donovan was sure of it. Why had the man had photographs of the state senator, the commissioner, and other businessmen and politicians on his wall? Was he planning to execute them? Is that why Senator Banks was involved? Clearly he and the commissioner knew more about the situation than they were prepared to divulge. And what of the raptors? Were they somehow linked? It seemed unlikely…but then the spy had also had a picture of one of those, too, stuck to his wall.

Whatever the raptors were, Donovan needed to rid the city of them. They were a scourge, a diabolical plague upon the populace, and he shuddered at the thought of what they might be doing to the innocent citizens they continued to pluck so brazenly from the streets. Even the Ghost was having trouble getting to the bottom of the matter, with the raptors dancing rings around him or putting up too much of a fight. Now, finally, they'd managed to destroy one—the remains of which were still stashed in the trunk of his car—but they were still no closer to having an answer.

Donovan stared at the paperwork on his desk. The words meant nothing to him, just a jumble of tics and scratches on the page—more of the endless bureaucratic nonsense he had to deal with instead of real police work. He rubbed his eyes. His lids were heavy and he needed sleep. But he knew he wouldn't be able to rest, even if he could get away. Perhaps, he thought reluctantly, he just needed caffeine and more cigarettes. Wasn't that the story of his life.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps approaching his desk. Mullins was looming over him, a dark expression on his face. The portly young man was flushed and sweating, with dark rings beneath his eyes, and he pulled nervously at his collar. He looked tired, too. Something had gone on.

“You look as if you've been up all night,” said Donovan, empathizing with the other man.

“I have,” Mullins replied warily, as if waiting for Donovan to make some further comment or judgment. Instead, he simply shrugged and waited for the sergeant to continue. “I have bad news for you, sir,” said Mullins gingerly.

“Just what I need,” Donovan sighed heavily. “What's happened? Further abductions? A murder? Someone run off with the commissioner's pussycat?”

Mullins didn't raise a smile, and Donovan felt a sinking feeling spreading throughout his chest. No, this really was bad news.

“No, sir. None of that. It's about the apartment you asked me to deal with last night, the one in Greenwich Village. Someone burned it to the ground before we were able to finish removing the contents.”

Donovan fixed Mullins with a confused stare. “Burned it to the ground? But it was on the third floor.”

“Yes, sir. They took the whole apartment block. Razed it completely. At least twelve people perished in the flames.” Mullins swallowed, clearly affected by the news he was imparting. “Inspector Anderson is down there now, attempting to establish exactly what happened. But one thing is clear—the fire was started in the very apartment you were interested in.”

Donovan allowed a long whistle to escape from between his teeth.
Twelve people.
Twelve people, all for the sake of some papers and a collage on the wall. As well as, perhaps, the corpse of a dead American agent. That was quite a price someone was prepared to pay. He'd been right—there was definitely more to this than he'd been allowed to know about so far.

“So we lost everything?”

Mullins shook his head. “Ah, well, there's perhaps one small bit of good news, sir. We managed to extract the corpse before the arsonist was able to make his move. None of the files, none of the photographs you wanted, but we have the body in the police morgue.”

“Well, at least that's something, Mullins, although it's hardly much consolation when it's about to find itself accompanied by twelve others. Did anyone survive?”

Mullins shook his head. “Not so far as we're aware, sir. It was the middle of the night. They'd have found themselves trapped in their apartments by the flames. The first most of them would have known about it, it would already have been too late. It seems the arsonist started a secondary fire in the basement, just to be sure.” He dabbed ineffectually at his forehead with a handkerchief. “One thing's clear though, sir. The dead man wasn't a government agent.”

Donovan frowned. He realized the butt of his cigarette had burned down to the filter and had gone out. He flicked the remains of it into the ashtray on his desk, scattering plumes of gray ash. He reached inside his jacket for another. “Not an agent?” he asked quizzically. “Go on.”

“We managed to get a positive identification for the man from our records, sir. He never worked for the government in any official capacity. He was hired muscle by the name of Paulo Lucarotti. He had a connection to the mob. What's more, he'd been in custody at a state penitentiary until two months ago, at which point he was given an early pardon and released.” Mullins stood back, evidently pleased with himself. But, Donovan noted, the haunted expression had not left his eyes.

“That's unusual,” Donovan replied, frowning. “So you're telling me a mob heavy gets released from jail early in order to go after a British spy, winds up dead, and then the scene of the crime gets torched, killing twelve innocent people in the process.”

“That's about the size of it, sir, yes,” said Mullins. “There's one other thing, too.”

“What's that, Mullins?”

Mullins placed his hands on Donovan's desk and leaned forward, glancing from side to side before he spoke. When he did, his voice had dropped to a whisper, so that Donovan had to lean forward in his chair to hear. “Commissioner Montague himself is the signatory on the release papers.” He stood back, rubbing the base of his spine, as if leaning forward had unbalanced him and caused his creaking bones to grate.

Donovan exhaled smoke thoughtfully from the corner of his mouth. “The commissioner…Now that really
is
interesting, Mullins.”

“I thought so, sir.”

Donovan studied the sergeant's face but could see no trace of irony there. “Good work, Sergeant. Very good work, indeed.” He leaned back in his chair. “I think it's time I went for a little chat with the commissioner, to update him on our progress.” He jammed his cigarette between his teeth and spoke around it. “Be a good man, Mullins—get the coffee on. You look like you could use it as much as I could.”

For the first time that morning, Mullins smiled.

Donovan felt suddenly imbued with nervous energy as he mounted the stairs to the commissioner's office. He didn't know if it was the caffeine finally starting to take effect, or more a sense of trepidation at what he might be about to uncover. What had the commissioner gone and gotten himself involved in? First Senator Banks, and now this…irregularity. Why was the commissioner getting personally involved in the early release of a mob heavy? Had he been leaned on? Donovan thought that unlikely—he'd never had Montague down as a mob man. Was it some half-baked attempt to send a hit man after the British spy? That would make more sense, but it was hardly above board, and clearly unlikely to succeed. He wondered if the dead man was actually their last resort—if they'd tried everything else already in their attempts to locate the spy.

More to the point, however, Donovan wasn't sure what he would do if he
did
discover the commissioner was involved in something murky. Who the hell would he go to with
that?
The commissioner was involved in state politics at the highest level, and had friends in all sorts of places. He probably thought he could do whatever he wanted, and he wouldn't have been far wrong. Short of being caught with his hand in the money pot, or around the throat of a whore, Montague was pretty much untouchable. Especially when one factored in the consideration that he was working closely with a state senator. With Banks there beside him, Montague could be confident that pretty much nothing would stick.

Donovan rapped on the door of the commissioner's office with a heavy heart. He knew that whatever happened here, he was in for a rough ride. The commissioner would want to know why Donovan wasn't any closer to bringing in the spy, and would probably even berate him about the arson attack on the apartment building. The commissioner would have to deal with the public relations nightmare that would arise from the death of twelve innocent civilians, and that would put him in a bad mood for days. And, Donovan suspected, the man wasn't likely to take kindly to being questioned about his conduct by a junior officer.

“Come.” The command was a muffled bark from within the room. Donovan reached for the doorknob, turned it in his clammy palm, and stepped into the room.

It took him a moment to pick out the commissioner from among all the furniture that dressed his ostentatious lair. He was propped in an armchair by the window, a fat cigar clamped between his teeth, wreathed in gray-blue smoke. He was wearing a smart pinstriped suit and a burgundy cravat. Donovan wondered if he'd just come from an important meeting.

“Ah, Donovan! Come in,” Montague said, waving for Donovan to come closer. “I hope you come bearing good news.”

Donovan cleared his throat. “Well…”

The commissioner's demeanor changed almost immediately. “Sit down, Donovan.” He grabbed his cigar between his thumb and his index finger like a pencil, withdrew it from between his teeth, examined the now-sodden end, and then pushed it back into his mouth. Then, grasping the arms of his chair, he leaned forward, eyeing Donovan as he lowered himself into one of the chairs. It was comfortable—far
too
comfortable in Donovan's eyes—more like something from a high-end hotel than an office.

“It's a simple job, Donovan. Find the man and bring him in. That's all I ask. Manhattan Island is not that big a place. Anyone would think I'd asked you to find the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

Donovan swallowed, biting back not fear, but anger at the man's recriminations. What the hell would he know about it? He measured his next words very carefully. “By your own admission, Commissioner, this man is trained to be an expert in subterfuge and espionage. He's dangerous, and he knows how to lose himself in a conurbation. Without any leads—”

“You
had
a lead!” the commissioner snapped. “And a damn good one. Mullins tells me you managed to stumble across his hideout, full of all the leads you'd ever need, as well as a damn corpse! What more do you need?”