The Night Falconer (25 page)

“You tell that man if I was there I’d give him a big kiss on his cheek. Tell him I said to get with the program and start kicking some butt if he has to.”

“I’ll pass on the message,” I said.

I had barely hung up and tucked the phone back in my pocket when it began buzzing. I plucked it out and checked the display. Dr. Lonigan. I answered on the third ring.

“He’s back,” she said.

“Who’s back?” I asked.

“Groucho,” she said. “I can hardly believe it.”

“What? What happened?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest idea. I came home from work for a little while a few minutes ago, and there he was in the doorway, standing waiting for me as if nothing had ever happened.”

“Have you checked him out? Is he okay?”

“He looks as healthy as ever.”

“Did you look around the apartment? Anything out of place or any of sign of a break-in?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Could he have been hiding somewhere there all along?”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. I … I really don’t know what to say.”

“What about the other pet owners?”

“I called everybody on the list before I called you. Of those I spoke to, no one else’s pet has returned.”

I said nothing, thinking things over.

“Frank, I know you must have a million other things on your mind at the moment.”

“To put it mildly.”

“I’m beginning to feel like such a fool over everything. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes,” I said. “Next time you hire a private investigator, be a little more honest with them up front.”

“I … Like I said, I don’t know what to say, I?”

“You knew Jayani Miller had had a relationship with Dominic Watisi, didn’t you?”

She said nothing.

“You knew that and Watisi knew you did, and that’s why he refused to talk to you about your lawsuit or your allegations regarding the pets.”

“Someone did steal our pets though.”

“Yeah, they did. But it wasn’t anyone working for Watisi to try to get back at you. And now two people are dead over part of it, and Nicole may be next.”

“But why?”

“Who knows why? If you had been straight with us from the beginning about everything, we might’ve had the answer to that by now.”

We were at Grayland Tower and braked to a stop in front.

“I am so, so sorry, Frank, I?”

“I’ve got to go,” I told her and clicked off.

Toronto, who’d been listening to it all from across the seat, said, “So we find Nicky, blow town, and forget the check from the client.”

“That sums it up.”

He pulled on the handle to open his door.

* * * * *

As I suspected, Jayani Miller was not one of the guards working the security desk today. Two wide bodies were manning the desk instead.

“Where’s Miller?” I asked.

“She called in sick this morning,” the taller one of the two said.

“Must be something going around,” Toronto said.

“Hey, you know you can’t park in the front turnout like that.”

“So tow us,” I said.

“Or not,” Toronto said, giving him the eye as we hustled to catch the elevator doors before they closed.

“Who are you two looking for?”

“Collins,” I said. “12C.”

“You’re too late,” the guard said. “He left fifteen minutes ago for Kennedy. He’s headed overseas on another trip.”

My phone buzzed again.

“Busy man,” Toronto said.

Probably the doctor calling back. I was planning to ignore the call, but glancing at the display, I noticed it originated from a different local exchange.

“Is this the private investigator looking for the owl in Central Park?” a voice asked.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Pock. Remember me?”

“Raines.”

“Yeah, Raines.”

“What’s going on?”

“You said you wanted info about who was flying that owl and what was happening with it.”

“Yeah.”

“And now your daughter’s missing.”

“That’s right. You know something?”

“You come and meet me half an hour from now in the park, I’ll tell you exactly where you can find her,” he said.

* * * * *

I’m no sucker for symbolism. But Cato Raines’ choice of a meeting spot couldn’t have been more appropriate.

On the south side of Seventy-Second Street Drive in the Park sits a large bronze sculpture. The Falconer, dating back to 1875, is the work of British sculptor George Blackall Simonds and depicts an Elizabethan falconer, raising on his gloved hand a falcon poised for release. The original sculpture of The Falconer was created in Trieste, Italy. Apparently, a wealthy nineteenth century New York merchant named George Kemp saw it and admired it so much that he commissioned a full-scale replica for Central Park. It was a beautiful work of art, like much of the rest of the park—a romantic representation of the reality.

Raines was seated on the ground with his back leaning against the base of the statue in the shade, probably half asleep, most likely to get away from the heat and the noise from the road. Bushes were filling in the space where he sat opposite the traffic flowing by on the other side of the statue, so as to make him practically invisible to passersby. He was wearing the exact same outfit I’d seen him in a couple of days before, right down to the crazy suspenders he probably never changed.

It was Toronto who noticed we might have a problem as we approached from the woods away from the road.

“Something’s wrong here,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Look at the man’s head.”

Raines’ head was clearly tilted at an abnormal angle, leaning back against the stone. As we drew closer, the cause became evident. Raines’ eyes were still open, staring emptily into the middle distance. He had been shot through the right temple with a small caliber bullet at close range. A trail of blood ran out from the wound and had stained the ground and the base of the statue. His dead hands were dirty and two of his fingertips were caked with orange clay.

“What a waste.” Toronto sighed.

I shook my head, still looking over the body.

“There goes another hot lead.”

“Maybe not,” I said, pulling out my cellphone to dial 911. “I’m calling it in, but we can’t stay here.”

“Why not?” He was already scanning the immediate area, looking for any sign of the shooter.

“Because I’ve seen that color clay someplace before,” I said.

30

“Tunnels. Great. I hate tunnels,” Toronto said.

“Could be worse,” I said. Our flashlight beams spread down the tunnel like swollen fingers reaching into the dark.

“How far do you think this goes?” he whispered.

We were in the bowels of Grayland Tower. I’d been right in tracing the clay from Raines’ fingers to the construction around this utility tunnel.

“Hard to tell,” I said. “But unless I’ve lost all sense of direction, I think we’re headed straight toward the park.”

“Under the street?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the subway?”

“There are no subway tunnels running under Central Park.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Whoever built this building could have used this shaft to smuggle something inside the building that they didn’t want anybody to see coming in the front door.”

“Like maybe the liquor during prohibition the reporter told me about.”

“Mmmm.” Toronto’s light shone along the ceiling, illuminating a spidery network of brown piping and decayed wiring. “Or it might have just been used for service work. Old utility lines, that sort of thing.”

“If it does connect up with the park, there’s bound to be an exit somewhere. Possibly even a side room or foyer.”

“You mean like where someone could be hiding Nicole or a bunch of smuggled kids.”

“Exactly. My guess is either Jayani Miller or Los Miembros were using Raines as a go-between.”

“For what?”

“To try to set up a scenario that would help them figure out where the girls and Sammy are hiding.”

“You mean the falconry book.”

“Yeah. Who know what Raines’ relationship was to Miller or the gang? But Miller passes the book to Raines after she finds out he may know something about the kids, hoping to goad him into bringing the kids out into the open somewhere so she can trap them. Raines was a survivalist type. He might’ve helped the kids trap the owl, taught the girl how to hunt with it.”

“But I thought you said she looked like she was trained Arab style.”

“That part I haven’t figured out yet.”

“I’m thinking we need to find a way to get down this tunnel and see what’s at the other end,” he said.

“The problem is, I don’t think either you or I are going to be able to fit in there very easily to check it out.”

I stepped up to the spot where the tunnel narrowed and approximated its girth with my hands. No way Toronto would fit with his wide shoulders. I might barely make it. But it would be like climbing down a blind cave with virtually no margin for error. I could easily get stuck. On the other hand, the girl with the owl and Sammy Yel Bak with his slender fingers curved around the trigger of the Kalashnikov, would have no problem. Neither would Nicole.

“The tunnel could open up again further in, and the other end might have a larger entrance,” he said.

“Which we could confirm if we knew where it was. Or that there even is such an entrance.”

Toronto flipped out his cell phone. “No reception down here,” he said. “I say we head back upstairs and call 911. Maybe they can get some sand rats or tunnel people in here to check this out.”

He turned to go. I held out my hand to stop him.

“Hold on a second.”

“Why?”

I had the unmistakable feeling I would find Nicole alive somewhere on the other side of this hole.

“We may not have time,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Before Jayani and her people killed Raines, they may have forced him to tell them where the other entrance is in the park.”

“If there is another entrance.”

“Right.”

“And if Nicky is even in there with these guys.”

“Right.”

“Lot of if’s.”

“Nicky’s in there somewhere.”

“How do you know?”

“I feel it.”

While we were standing there with our thumbs in our mouths, the time for debate came abruptly to an end. From somewhere deep inside the tunnel echoed an ominous crack, followed in quick succession by another and then another. The unmistakable sound of a handgun going off.

“Gotta go.” I dove toward the opening, reaching for my Glock.

“Here,” Toronto said, snatching a small penlight from one of his pockets and shoving it. “At least use this. I’ll get the cavalry.”

I ducked my face below the lip of the opening and plunged ahead onto my stomach, leading with the dim light and my gun. A wormhole for a coffin. Now wouldn’t that be nice?

“Hey, Frank,” Toronto said from behind me as I began wriggling down the narrow with barely an inch or two between my shoulders and the walls. “Keep your light down and your face to the stone. Makes it harder to see you coming.”

What did he think this was, Tora Bora? I felt the tunnel begin to swallow me, its brick and stone supports chafing at my knees, elbows, shoulders, and forehead. A dim green phosphorescent glow of the penlight became my world. Face to the stone.

31

The passage through the narrow rock tube seemed to take five years. I squirmed forward inch by inch, the safety still on at the base of my Glock just in case. The last thing I needed was to deafen myself and possibly injure someone at the end of the tunnel ahead. It had to end somewhere. That gunfire hadn’t come from the moon.

I focused on the rock face in front of my nose. I tried not to think about all the weight of the earth around me, the rocks and roots and trees, not to mention the hundreds of thousands of tons of steel, stone, and pavement that made up midtown Manhattan. Instead, I concentrated on a memory of an outing with Torch earlier in the spring.

It was a warm March day, nearing the end of the season. The sun was out and a light breeze was blowing, but not enough to affect our hunting or cause Torch any trouble. In fact, the sky was completely clear and such an electric blue, it seemed to pulse with energy. Torch, following on as I negotiated my way through a variable grove of thicket and woods, soared from tree branch to tree branch, the only sound the faint deep note of his bells.

When a rabbit burst from the thicket, a large buck, Torch was all business, having stalked and sensed him long before I. His stoop was an eye blink of beauty, timed for the kill as he’d done hundreds of times before.

But this buck was no ordinary cottontail. He feinted and dodged as expected but he also managed to skillfully employ his cover—a rock outcropping, a jagged fur pine, and a dense rhododendron—in such a way as to cause Torch to pull tail fur but miss clutching the big rabbit’s body with his talons. We chased and stalked him all over that wood it seemed, but he finally got away.

Half an hour later, Torch caught another rabbit, which made it a successful outing. But I couldn’t forget the skill and the cunning of that big buck. Torch might not have been the baddest hunting hawk to ever come down the pike, but he was no slouch either. The buck had proved a more than worthy foe.

This is what some of those sign carrying fools at the courthouse who hated all kinds of hunting failed to understand, precisely because the vast majority of them had never actually picked up a rifle or a bow or, for that matter, flown a bird of prey at live quarry in the wild. Their minds were numbed to reality by Disneyfied visions of Bambi killers. The truth was more complex than that. The strong and the determined survived, hunter and prey alike. It was the height of human vanity to somehow believe man had completely evolved beyond all that.

Thinking back to the ludicrous scene with the dueling protestors kept me going. I focused on the green glow of the rock around me.

Soon, the air began to grow cooler. The walls of my tunnel remained as suffocating as ever, but I could sense a wider opening ahead.

I risked lifting my head slightly to look and there it was: a dim light filtered into the curving tunnel from up ahead. I was nearing the end of my torture, for better or worse.