The Frenzy Way (15 page)

Pedro tapped the cell phone in his hand. “He must want me to call it.”

The priest knitted his eyebrows. “For what possible reason?”

“If the professor was murdered for the Blade, it’s possible his killer took the phone. May I have a pen and a piece of paper?”

“Of course.” Father Hagen handed the items to Pedro and watched the man jot ideas down on the paper, cross them out, think, and start over until he had completed a script.

Then Pedro entered the phone number into his cell phone and waited. After a moment, he spoke in a very clear voice. “Hello. Do you need
salvation?
Your secret is
safe
with me. I’ve come a long way to meet you. Call me
today.”
Closing the phone, he exhaled. “Good. Monsignor Delecarte will be pleased.”

Father Hagen admired Pedro’s ingenuity. “If you get a response …”

“I will get a response.”

“Until then, there’s nothing for us to do. Use this opportunity to see the city. Go to the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. Miguel will escort you.”

“I’d prefer to see the city alone.”

“As you wish.”

Watching Pedro leave, Hagen felt a sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach. Pedro seemed hot for blood.

As Patty drove over the Queens Bridge, Mace flipped through the pages of
Transmogrification in Native American Mythology.

“That was one strange chick,” Patty said.

“She was playing a role. I don’t think she believes that nonsense. She’s just catering to a niche clientele.”

“If you say so.”

He read out loud, “‘The White Man declared war on the American wolf in 1620, when the howling of wolves awoke Pilgrims on board the Mayflower, anchored in Cape Cod Bay. The Pilgrims brought with them their European superstitions and prejudices, and ten years later, the Massachusetts Bay Colony implemented the first wolf bounty.”’

“That goddamned White Man,” Patty said.

“‘In 1632, the Virginia colony enlisted Indians to voluntarily help eradicate the wolves, but South Carolina’s 1695 Act for Destroying Beasts of Prey required Indians to turn over one wolf skin, one panther skin, or one bear skin. Those who refused were whipped. Thus, the White Invaders forced Native Americans to hunt and kill their own gods.’”

Patty shook her head without saying anything.

Mace turned the page. “Three hundred and thirty thousand wolves were killed between 1780 and 1799. In 1915, Congress appropriated one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for the destruction of wolves, coyotes, and ‘other animals injurious to agriculture and animal husbandry.’ By 1920, the government employed four hundred federal hunters assigned to killing wolves.”

“Sounds like we screwed the wolves even worse than we did the Indians,” Patty said.

“Wolves are just animals.” Mace flipped through the pages, then came to a sudden stop, pulse quickening. “I don’t believe it.”

Patty glanced over at him. “What?”

“See for yourself.” He held the open book over the dashboard so she could see it without too much distraction. A full-page illustration depicted a sword with a long, wide blade and a large hilt. A detail of the drawing showed the hilt only, with a hooded man staring in one direction and a wolf staring the other way carved into the pommel. “The Blade of Salvation.”

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“Glenzer’s own book answers the riddle of the broken sword. ‘During the Spanish Inquisition, witches were burned at the stake, but werewolves were decapitated. The executioner of were-creatures wielded a sword forged in silver and blessed by the pope. The weapon later disappeared. It is likely the mythology that has sprung up over the centuries involving silver bullets and knives stems directly from the so-called Blade of Salvation.’ In Glenzer’s letter to that priest who came by this morning, he referred to the sword as ‘the Blade.’”

Patty’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “He must have wanted the sword because of its connection to the church. Whoever killed Glenzer wanted it too. The question is, where did Glenzer get it, and what did he intend to do with it?”

“You said he went on sabbatical to research this book. Maybe he discovered it then. His emotional problems at school didn’t start untilhe came back, right? It has to be valuable or he wouldn’t have locked it in that safe.”

“And he wouldn’t have been torn to pieces over it.”

In his mind, Mace assembled an imaginary puzzle. “The killer had to know Glenzer had the sword. He knew of Glenzer’s paranoia and played it to his advantage. He doesn’t believe he’s a werewolf at all.”

“Then why keep up the charade when he attacked Sarah Harper?”

Mace shook his head. “I have no idea.”

The 114th Precinct, located on Astoria Boulevard in Queens, covered Astoria, Long Island City, Woodside, and Jackson Heights. Although a very large Greek population resided within the patrol area, a real melting pot had formed there in the last several years. Mace had heard grumblings within the department, increasingly louder talk of corruption reaching epidemic proportions. The clock was ticking on when several scandals would erupt.

“I grew up in Jackson Heights,” Patty had said as they drove beneath the elevated train tracks.

“I guess the neighborhood’s changed a lot.” Mace gazed out the window at the multiethnic civilians moving from shop to shop.

“Every neighborhood has,” she said matter-of-factly.

Standing outside the interview room, they observed a female suspect through the one-way viewing window. Her curly black hair hung down around her shoulders, and she wore a vest over her blouse, her sandaled feet extending from her skirt.

“She’s cold, that one,” Detective Taylor Wood said. “Just told the officers on the scene, ‘I killed my husband.’” Wood wore his hair ina buzz cut and his belly over his belt. His wide tie hung loose around his neck.

“What’s her name?” Patty said.

“Aishe Danior. Husband’s name was Peter. He drove a gypsy cab at night. She’s a gypsy and so was he, and he drove a gypsy cab. Funny, huh?”

“Hilarious. How’d she do him?”

“She says she poisoned him, stabbed him in the heart, cut off his head, and torched his body in the bathtub. We can confirm those last three, but we need toxicology to test the body for poison. Good luck with that; it’s toast. FDNY arrived on the scene first and put out the fire.”

Mace said, “And she killed him because …”

“He was a
loup-garou
—a werewolf. That’s why we called you. You’re the big monster hunters, right?”

Patty said, “Mind if we take a crack at her?”

“Be my guest,” Wood said, gesturing at the door. “But I don’t see the point. She already confessed. Just remember, if there’s a book in this, I’m the arresting detective.”

Patty went through the door alone.

Wood gave Mace a conspiratorial look. “You got my sympathy.”

“Save it for someone who needs it.” Mace followed Patty inside the interview room and closed the door. They sat in metal folding chairs on the opposite side of the table from Aishe, who looked younger and more attractive up close.

Patty said, “Mrs. Danior—”

“Don’t call me by that name.” Her voice was like ice.

“What would you like us to call you?”

The woman’s gaze shifted from Patty to Mace and back. “My maiden name is Petulengro. I am Aishe Petulengro.”

“Aishe. That’s a pretty name. What does it mean?”

Aishe smiled in an unconvincing manner. “It means ‘alive.’ Something Pitti can no longer claim.”

“Pitti?”

“My late husband. The animal I murdered. Pitti and Peter are the same. He tried to Americanize himself. I did not. Do you want to know what Danior means?”

“Sure.”

“It means ‘born with teeth.’” She said this as if it had great significance.

“That’s a lovely accent you have.”

“My family is from France.”

“Is that where Pitti was from too?”

“Of course not. Pitti was a peasant. His family is from Spain.”

“If you were from different countries, and you disliked him so much …”

“We were both Roma people, gypsies. That is what matters. Our parents arranged our marriage so I could come here for a better life.” She laughed, a sarcastic sound.

“And what went wrong?”

Aishe looked at Patty as if she were a fool. “You mean, why did I kill him? I already told the fat cop. Because Pitti was a
loup-garou
, a werewolf.”

Patty held the woman’s gaze. “So he was the man who committed the murders the last two nights and claimed to be a werewolf?”

Aishe snorted. “He did commit those murders, and he was a werewolf. Believe what you want.”

“Let’s discuss what you believe. Why do you think your husband was a werewolf?”

Aishe pointed above the bridge of her nose. “He had a single eyebrow across his forehead.”

“A unibrow?”

“And his palms were hairy. Have you ever seen a man with hairy palms, either of you?” She glanced at Mace, who shook his head. Turning back to Patty, she said, “He liked to fuck me from behind, like a dog. Always when the moon was full.” She leaned forward.
“Only
when the moon was full. Can you imagine? How could he not be a
loup-garou?”

“Did he fuck you like a dog last night?”

Mace tried to show no reaction. He could never have asked a female suspect such a question in that manner.

Aishe’s voice remained steady. “I didn’t give him the chance. I knew he killed that old man and that girl who looked like Paris Hilton. Why would I let him put his animal cock inside me? I’m not an animal bitch. I killed him as soon as he came home.”

“He drove his cab at night?”

“From sunset to sunrise. Last night was no exception. Can I smoke in here?”

“Sure.”

“Give me a cigarette.”

Without missing a beat, Patty took out her Marlboro Lights and allowed Aishe to draw one from the pack. Holding out her lighter, she lit the cigarette, which Aishe sucked on.

Exhaling smoke, the woman made a disdainful face. “American cigarettes …”

“Aishe, what makes you think Pitti killed Professor Glenzer and Sarah Harper?”

“I am a professional tarot card reader. The cards told me the truth.”

“Did your husband keep a record of the trips he made while he was working?”

“You’re being ridiculous. He was a
gypsy
cabdriver. Roma people keep their money because we keep no such records.”

“How did you kill your husband?”

Sitting back, Aishe tapped her cigarette into a metal jar lid serving as an ashtray. “I poisoned his coffee. Then I stabbed him in his black heart with a silver-bladed butcher knife. I cut off his head and set him on fire.”

“That’s a lot of action. You killed him four times over.”

“It was necessary. He was a
loup-garou.
He was only vulnerable because I attacked him when he was in his human form.”

“You did all that by yourself?”

“Once I’d poisoned him the rest was easy.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe.”

“I think you’re protecting someone. A lover or a family member.” Aishe stared into Patty’s eyes. “If I am protecting someone, you’ll never learn who it is.”

Patty turned to Mace, indicating she had run out of questions to ask. Clearing his throat, he reached into his coat pocket and took out Terrence Glenzer’s book. “Aishe, does this mean anything to you?” He showed her the illustration of the Blade of Salvation.

Aishe pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, nothing.”

“Did your husband collect artifacts?” “Pitti?” She laughed. “Animals have no culture.” Mace rose. “Thank you for your time.”

As he and Patty exited the interview room, Aishe called after them, “I deserve a medal for saving this city from that monster!”