Known Devil (12 page)

“And since God, or whoever’s in charge, has seen fit to gift us with this link,” I said, “it would behoove us to follow it and see where it leads.”

“Well, whether it fucking behooves us or not, we can’t just bust the guy,” Karl said. “The shit he’s selling is legal, remember?”

“I wasn’t planning to bust him,” I said. “But I do think he should be questioned.”

Karl looked at me as if I’d just said I believe in the Easter Bunny. I don’t, of course – although, far as I’m concerned, the jury’s still out on the Great Pumpkin.

“We can’t pick bring some guy in to question him about something that’s not a crime, Stan. You know that, well as I do.”

“I never said anything about bringing Gillespe
in
,” I told him. “And as for questioning, I figured I’d leave that up to you.”

He leaned back in his chair. “OK, now the light dawns. You’re talking about one of those more
informal
Q-and-A sessions.”

“Uh-huh. Preferably carried out in the back seat of our car while it’s parked in an alley someplace.”

“Nothing we get out of him would be admissible in court,” he said slowly. “On the other hand…”

“On the other hand, it might bring us one step closer to the Delatassos. And if need be, once we find the next link, we can repeat the informal procedure with him.”

“I like the way you think,” Karl said. “One thing we have to–”

That was when McGuire opened the door to his office and stepped out. “Markowski! You and Renfer got one!”

Moments later, McGuire was back behind his desk, while Karl and I stood in front of it to get our marching orders. “Black-and-white units are already at the scene,” he said, “along with the fire department and somebody from the State Police bomb squad. But I wanted you two on it as well.”

Karl and I looked at each other before Karl said, “On what, boss?”

“It looks like somebody blew up Victor Castle.”

 

Even before we got to Evelyn Avenue, I could hear them: the whooping, screeching, and honking sounds made by about a hundred car alarms going all at once. A sound wave can set off lots of different makes of car alarms, if it’s strong enough. Anybody living near an airport could tell you that.

Then we turned the corner and drove straight into the middle of a Hieronymus Bosch nightmare.

The street was full of police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks, not to mention the van belonging to the State Police bomb squad – all parked at crazy angles. Their flashing red-and-blue lights sent strobe-like shadows skittering across the storefronts and apartments that lined the street on both sides. Broken glass from what had been hundreds of windows threw back the flashing lights crazily, as if the street and sidewalks themselves were on fire.

Somebody had given this part of Scranton its own version of the Nazi
Kristallnacht
– the Night of Broken Glass. According to what I saw on the History Channel, a night like this had signaled the beginning of the organized persecution of Germany’s Jews. I hoped the rampant destruction I was looking at wasn’t going to be a sign of some new kind of terror.

We parked as close as we could get to the scene – which turned out to be two blocks away from the outer ring of yellow crime scene tape. Karl and I made sure our badges were in plain view, and started walking. There were no flames visible up ahead, and no water running through the gutters, so I guessed the fire trucks had been called as a precaution and had decided to stick around, just in case.

Up ahead, I saw an ambulance start up and slowly drive away. I noticed the driver wasn’t using the lights or siren, which meant he was headed for the morgue, not the hospital. There’s never any hurry when your passenger is already dead.

I saw a guy over near the bomb squad van who I recognized. Chris Dennehy and I used to run into each other at crime scenes back when I was in Homicide, although I hadn’t seen him in a while. Death by explosion isn’t an M. O. you come across very often on the supe squad.

We went over there and I stuck my hand out. “Chris,” I said. “Been a long time.” I had to raise my voice so that he could hear me over the din caused by all those car alarms.

“How ya doin’, Stan,” he said as we shook. He was speaking louder than normal, too.

I saw him looking over my shoulder. “This is my partner, Karl Renfer,” I said. “Karl, meet Chris Dennehy. He’s a Statie who gets blown up for a living.”

“Not if I can help it,” Dennehy said, and shook hands with Karl. As he let go, I saw a puzzled look on his face – maybe because Karl’s grip, like every vampire’s, is colder than a banker’s heart. Dennehy might have realized then that Karl was undead – but if so, he was smart enough to let it go.

“Have they got a positive ID on the body yet?” I asked.

“Yeah, one of the guys who works in the rug store was in back when the bomb went off, so he wasn’t hurt . He looked at the body for us. When he got done puking, he confirmed that it was Castle.”

I made a head gesture toward the street. “How d’you figure it went down, Chris?”

He looked toward what had once been the front of Mystic Rugs, Magic Carpets, narrowing his eyes against the flashing lights. “Looks like the bomb was in a trash can in front of the store. Nailed Castle from about twenty feet away, along with a lot of the surrounding real estate.”

Karl looked at him. “Radio-controlled, right?”

“Had to be. No way somebody could’ve cut it that fine with a time bomb.”

I nodded agreement, then said, “Can you think of any local experts who might have been able to put something like this together?”

“Uh-uh. Only guy from around here who was good at stuff like this was Mickey McCormick,” he said, “and he spread himself over two city blocks in Hazelton last year, in what I can only assume was some kind of on-the-job accident.”

I took a slow look around at the broken glass and scorched pavement. “Whoever he was, he used something pretty powerful. You don’t get results like this from a couple of cherry bombs taped together.”

“Judging from the blast pattern, I’d say it was some kind of plastic,” Dennehy said. “C-4, maybe even Semtex. We might have something more definitive on that in a couple of days.” He shrugged. “Or not. You know how it goes.”

“A remote detonator and Semtex,” Karl said. “Not exactly amateur night, is it?”

“It’s professional work, alright,” Dennehy said. “And since Mickey McCormick’s in the ground, probably buried in a shoebox, I’d say somebody brought in out-of-town talent.”

“Where you gonna find somebody like that?” I said. “I’m pretty sure they don’t let bombers advertise on Craigslist.”

“Best bet’s one of the big cities,” Dennehy said. “And even then, you’d have to know the right people to talk to. There’s two pros I’ve heard of in New York, although they mostly do work for the Five Families. And if you looked hard enough, you could probably find bomb specialists in Boston, Chicago…”

“Maybe even Philadelphia,” Karl said.

 

“So, when you said Philly, you were thinking of the Delatassos,” I said to Karl. “Right?”

“Course I was,” he said.

We were on our way to a bar – but not because either one of us wanted a drink. Drinking on duty’s against department policy, anyway.

But Renfield’s is more than just a place where you can get any drink known to man – as well as a few that most men wouldn’t
want
to know. As the biggest supe bar in town, it’s often been a good source of information for Karl and me. You get an interesting mix of customers at Renfield’s, and some of them have been known to be talkative, given the right incentive.

I glanced at Karl. “Why would the Delatassos want to take out Victor Castle?”

He shrugged. “Could be he was trying to fuck with the Slide trade. When we told him about that stuff the other night, he wasn’t a happy camper, remember? I don’t know what pissed him off more – that somebody was selling shit like that in Scranton, or that he hadn’t heard about it yet.”

They say that bad news travel fast. You may also have heard the expression “the dead travel fast”. So you can just imagine how fast bad tidings travel among the dead, the undead, and the formerly dead. The news of Victor Castle’s murder had gone through the local supe community like a prairie fire.

I realized that as soon as Karl and I opened the front door of Renfield’s. For one thing, the place was packed – pretty unusual, even for Saturday night. But when catastrophe strikes, the members of any community will tend to draw together – whether to mourn, to commiserate with each other, or just to gossip about what had happened and share details that are mostly rumor, fantasy, or speculation.

And if the size of crowd didn’t tell me that news of Castle’s death had already spread, what happened when Karl and I came in would have made it crystal clear. We hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps into the room when the level of conversation went from what I’d call “medium-loud” to what anybody would have to describe as “silent as a fucking tomb”.

That wasn’t normal. Sure, they knew Karl and I were cops, but we’d been coming into Renfield’s together for more than a year without any problems, not to mention all the times before that when I’d drop by with my old partner, Paul DiNapoli. And these days, Karl was even what you might call a member of the supe club.

Our footsteps sounded loud in the silence as we made our way to the bar. I don’t know if the customers were expecting us to make some kind of announcement, or start arresting people, or even shoot up the place. But once it became clear that none of that was going to happen, the level of tension slowly eased. By the time we reached the bar, the buzz of conversation had started again. Over the next few minutes, it gradually returned to its former level.

Tending bar was a thirtyish brown-eyed blonde with a pug nose and a perky manner. I was a little surprised to see her on a Saturday, since she usually works weeknights.

“Hi, Sam,” I said. “Where’s Elvira?”

The regular weekend bartender has a persona based on that campy sexpot who hosts a TV show in LA devoted to bad horror movies. The cleavage alone probably gets our local version a lot of tips.

“She took some vacation time and went back to Minneapolis – I guess her mom’s pretty sick,” Samantha said. “What can I get for you, Stan?”

“Club soda for me and a…” I glanced toward Karl.

“Type O, lightly warmed,” he said.

I was a little disappointed when she didn’t just twitch that cute nose of hers and cause the drinks to appear by magic. But I knew that Samantha wasn’t a real witch – she just played one on the job. And magic doesn’t work like that, anyway.

As she moved off down the bar, I said to Karl, “I’m a little surprised you didn’t order that ‘shaken, not stirred’.”

He gave me a half-smile. “I save that for when I want a Bloody Mary.”

As you might imagine, the Bloody Marys in Renfield’s are made with real blood.

I slowly turned in my stool and scanned the room, looking for my favorite informant. I could’ve used the big mirror over the bar to check the place out, but that’s not always reliable. On any given night, some of Renfield’s patrons won’t necessarily reflect in mirrors.

When I heard Sam’s voice behind me say, “Here you go, fellas,” I turned back around and reached for my wallet, since Karl had paid the last time.

Dropping a ten on the bar, I asked Sam, “Barney Ghougle been in tonight?”

“Not so far, Stan. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him all week.”

That was too bad. Most ghouls love gossip the way pigs enjoy mud, and Barney Ghougle was usually hip-deep in it. If anybody had any scuttlebutt about what had been going on in town lately, it would be him. Then I noticed a sometime informant of mine sitting in a corner. Robin was alone but probably wouldn’t be for long.

Looking at that corner table, all you’d see was a tall brunette in a tight blue dress who sat there sipping a drink and oozing sex appeal. If that’s what you saw, you’d be partially right. She
was
a beautiful woman – but only some of the time.

Robin was a succubus – which meant that, like all of her kind, she was also an incubus. A succubus/incubus can take on either a female or male aspect at will, each one extremely attractive and highly desirable. Whether you were male or female, gay, straight, or bi, Robin could be exactly what you wanted – for the right price, of course. She was believed to be the most successful prostitute in town, if not the whole Wyoming Valley. A few more good years, and she’d probably be able to
buy
the Wyoming Valley.

Every cop who’s been on the job longer than ten minutes knows that prostitution goes on. But in Scranton, like a lot of towns, we mostly leave the working girls alone. As long as they’re discreet and don’t cross over into something like robbery, blackmail, or drug dealing, they can ply their trade without being harassed by the law. There’s enough
real
crime – involving humans and supes alike – to keep the police busy without us becoming guardians of public morality as well.

Due to the size and variety of her clientele, Robin came across a lot of information – some of which was even true. I caught her eye and made a slight gesture with my chin in the direction of the restrooms. Then I said to Karl, “I’ll be back in a couple minutes. See if you can find anybody who’s feeling talkative.” Then I slid off my stool and headed toward the men’s room around the corner.

Two minutes later, I was standing at one of the urinals when Robin came in. There was nobody else in the place – I’d checked the stalls, just to be sure – but even if another guy came in, he wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual, since Robin now looked like a man.

Hell, Robin
was
a man – a dark-haired, good-looking guy with nothing remotely feminine about his features. Even the clothing was different – the male version of Robin was wearing designer jeans, a chambray shirt and a sport coat that probably cost what I make in a month. I’d never understood how the physical transformation could be accompanied by a change in outfit, but I guess magic is magic. If you can shift from one gender to the other in a matter of seconds, changing your wardrobe is a pretty small trick by comparison.