The Reapers: A Thriller-CP-7 (17 page)

“The men who attacked your home and the auto shop in Queens were sent by Leehagen. More will follow. I don’t doubt that you’re capable of handling most of them, but, rather like terrorists, they only have to get lucky once, while you will have to be both lucky, and proficient, all of the time. I also imagine that you would prefer not to have any more attention drawn to yourself or your business operations than is absolutely necessary. Therefore, it is incumbent upon you to act sooner rather than later.”

“And how would you know all of this?”

“Because I am at war with Arthur Leehagen,” said Hoyle. “I make it a point to know as much as possible about his actions.”

“And assuming any of this is true, why are you so eager to share it with us?” asked Louis.

“There is bad blood between Leehagen and me. It goes back a very long way. We grew up not far from each other, but our lives have taken somewhat divergent paths. Despite that, fate has seen fit to bring us into conflict on occasion. I would like to outlive him, and I would like that process to begin as soon as possible.”

“Must be real bad blood,” said Louis.

Hoyle nodded at Simeon. A portable DVD player was placed upon the table. Simeon hit the

“Play” button. After a second or two, a grainy film commenced.

“This arrived two months ago,” said Hoyle. He did not look at the screen. Instead, he watched the reflection of the ripples upon the wall behind them.

The film showed a pretty blond woman, perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties. The woman appeared to be dead, and her face and hair were smeared with mud. She was naked, but most of her body was obscured by the massive heads of the hogs that were feeding on her. Angel looked away. Simeon hit “Pause,” freezing the image.

“Who is she?”

“My daughter, Loretta,” said Hoyle. “She was seeing Leehagen’s surviving son, Michael. She was doing so out of spite. She blamed me for all that was wrong with her life. Sleeping with the son of a man whom I despised seemed, to her, fitting revenge, but she underestimated the Leehagen family’s capacity for violence, and vengeance.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Louis quietly.

Hoyle looked away, unable to meet Louis’s eye. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, the clear implication being that whatever had provoked such a response had been similarly vile.

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Because there was no proof that Leehagen did this. I know the recording came from him—I can feel it—but even if I managed to convince the police that Leehagen was responsible, I guarantee that there would be nothing of my daughter left for them to find, assuming they could even locate the hog farm in question. There is also the matter of my own dealings with Leehagen. Neither of us is entirely innocent, but it has gone too far for us to stop now.”

He gestured at Simeon, who picked up the DVD player and removed it to a darkened alcove, then disappeared into one of the back rooms.

“I should add that you were not my first port of call in this matter,” said Hoyle. “I first hired a man named Kandic, a Serb, to kill Leehagen’s remaining son, and, if possible, Leehagen himself. I was informed that Kandic was the best in the business.”

“And how did that work out?” asked Louis.

Simeon returned. In his hands was a glass jar, and in the jar lay a human head. The corneas had been drained of color by the embalming fluid, and the skin had been bleached to the color of bone. The flesh at the base of the neck was ragged and torn.

“Not very well,” said Hoyle drily. “This arrived one week ago. Either I was misled when I was told that Kandic was the best, or it’s bad news for anyone who might consider following in his footsteps.”

“And now you want Leehagen to pay for what happened to your daughter.”

“I want this to end. It will do so only when one of us is dead. Naturally, as I said, I would prefer it if Leehagen predeceased me.”

Louis stood. The movement caused the two men by the door to reach for their weapons, but Simeon stilled them with a wave of his hand.

“Well,” said Louis, “this has all been very interesting. I don’t know where you get your information from, but you should talk to your source, because he’s feeding you some poor product. I don’t know about any Luther Berger, and I’ve never handled a gun in my life. I’m a businessman, that’s all. I’d also be careful about saying some of those things out loud again. It could get you into trouble with the law.”

Louis walked to the door, Angel behind him. Nobody tried to stop them, and no one said anything until they had passed into the lobby and were waiting on the elevator.

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” said Hoyle. “I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you soon.”

The elevator doors opened, Louis and Angel stepped inside, and rode in silence to the ground before disappearing into the streets.

Louis was silent as they drove from Hoyle’s building. Around them, the city moved to its own hidden heartbeat, a rhythm that varied from hour to hour, tied to the movements of the individuals that inhabited it so that sometimes he found it hard to tell if the city dictated the lifestyles of its people, or the people influenced the life of the city.

“I thought the gloves were a nice touch,” said Angel. “If his tan had been a little darker, he could have done Al Jolson.”

There was no reply. A signal changed ahead of them, but Louis floored the gas and sped through the lights. Louis knew better than to risk attracting the attention of the cops, but now he seemed reluctant to stop for any reason. Angel could also see that he was driving with his mirrors, keeping a close watch on cars behind them, or passing on the left and right. Angel looked out of his window, watching storefronts flash by.

“What are we going to do?” he asked. His tone, though soft and neutral, indicated to his partner that a response of some kind would be wise.

“I make some calls. I find out how much of what Hoyle told us is true.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“I don’t trust anyone with that much money.”

“The head in the jar was pretty convincing. You really never hear of the guy he hired?”

“No, I never did.”

“Can’t have been too good at his job, if you never heard of him.”

“The fact that his head currently resides in a jar would tend to support that,” said Louis.

“So?”

“If Hoyle is telling even some of the truth, then we’re going to have to move against this Leehagen,” said Louis. “We’ll need to do it fast. He’ll know that we’re looking for whoever is trying to light us up. He needs to get to us before we figure it out. So, like I told you, I’ll make some calls, and we’ll take it from there.”

Angel sighed. “And I was starting to enjoy the quiet life.”

“Yeah, but you need the noise to appreciate the silence.”

Angel looked at him. “What are you: Buddha?”

“I must have read it someplace.”

“Yeah, in a fortune cookie.”

“You got a soul like a raisin, you know that?”

“Just drive. My raisin-like soul needs peace.”

Angel went back to staring out of the window, but his eyes took in nothing of what they saw.
CHAPTER NINE

ANGEL SAT ALONE AT his workbench. Before him were scattered the components of an assortment of keyless entry systems: pushbutton handsets, hard-wired keypads, wireless remote deadbolts, and even a proximity card reader and a fingerprint reader, the latter alone representing about two thousand dollars worth of butchered electronics. Angel liked to keep up with developments in his area of expertise. Most of the equipment he was examining was capable of being used for both commercial and domestic purposes, but homeowners and contractors had, in his experience, yet to embrace the new technology. Equally, most locksmiths were not adept at dealing with keyless locks. Many were suspicious of the new systems, regarding them as being more open to corruption or breakdown. The reality was that electronic systems had fewer moving parts and, once they were installed, were potentially much harder to access than traditional mechanical systems. Angel could pick a five-pin tumbler lock with a screwdriver and a pin. A biometric reader was another matter entirely.

Usually, he would be fascinated by the equipment he had disassembled, like an anatomist given an opportunity to examine the internal organs of a particularly fine specimen, but on this occasion his mind was elsewhere. The attack on the apartment building had unnerved him, and the evening’s developments at Hoyle’s apartment had done nothing to set his mind at ease. In the aftermath of the attacks, he and Louis had discussed the possibility of lying low for a time, but had quickly discounted it. To begin with, there was Mrs. Bondarchuk, who refused to move, arguing that it would disturb her Pomeranians. She also pointed out that her grandfather had refused to flee from the Communists in Russia, fighting on with the Whites, and that her father had fought the Nazis at Stalingrad. They had not run, and neither would she. The fact that both her grandfather and father had died in the course of their respective stands against the enemy did not affect her argument in any way.

Louis, in turn, did not believe that their enemies would attack them again at the apartment. Between that incident, and the encounter at the auto shop, three men had been lost. At the very least, they would be licking their wounds. A little time had been bought, and it could best be used at their home, not at some makeshift safe house, or in a vulnerable hotel. Angel had acquiesced, but there was something in the way Louis spoke that had disturbed him. He wants them to come, he thought. He wants this to continue. He likes it. Angel had never told a soul that Louis sometimes frightened him. He had not even told Louis, although he wondered if Louis might not have guessed that fact for himself. It was not that he feared Louis might turn on him. While his partner could charitably be described as “acidtongued” on occasion, none of the violence of which he was capable had ever been directed at Angel. No, what frightened Angel was Louis’s need for that violence. There was a hunger inside him that could only be fed by it, and Angel did not fully understand the source of that hunger. Oh, he knew a great deal about Louis’s past. Not everything, though: there were parts of it that remained hidden, even from him, but then it was also true that Angel had not told Louis everything about himself either. After all, no relationship could function or survive under the burden of total honesty.

But the details of Louis’s past were not enough to explain the man that he had become, not for Angel. When faced with a threat to his own safety and that of the women with whom he lived, the young Louis had acted immediately to remove that threat. He had set out, quite coldbloodedly, to kill the man named Deber whom he suspected of murdering his mother, and who had now returned to the house that she had occupied with her own mother, her sisters, and her young son, to replace her with another. Louis had smelt his mother’s blood upon him, and Deber in turn, his senses attuned to potential threats, had seen the desire for vengeance bubbling beneath the placid surface of the boy. Their small world could not contain both of them, and Deber had felt certain that, when the time came for the boy to act, he would do so in the way of a hot-headed young man. It would be direct: a blade, or a cheap gun acquired for the purpose. Deber would see him coming. The boy would want to look into Deber’s eyes as he died, for that was the kind of revenge that a child sought. There could be no gratification at a distance, Deber believed.

But the boy was not like that. From his earliest years, there was something inside him that could not be touched, an old soul living in a young body. Deber was cunning and cruel, but the boy was clever and dispassionate. Deber did not die from a bullet wound, or a knife to the chest or belly. He did not see death coming for him, for death arrived camouflaged. It came in the guise of a cheap metal whistle, an item of which Deber was inordinately fond. He used it to summon the boy for meals, to get the attention of his woman, to organize the gangs of men whose work he oversaw. When he raised it to his mouth on that fateful morning, he might just have had enough time to wonder why it did not emit its usual shrill call before the small ball of homemade explosive blew his face and part of his skull away. The boy’s last memory of Deber was of a small, dapper man leaving the house to drive to work, the whistle hanging on a chain around his neck. He did not need to see the whistle being raised, to witness the burst of red and black that came with the explosion, to stare down upon the ruined human being dying in a pauper’s bed, in order to achieve satisfaction.

Deber’s murder had come naturally to Louis, so it would not be true to say that his first fatal act of violence had set him on the path to becoming what he now was. He had always had that capacity within him, and the catalyst for its eruption into the world had been largely unimportant. But once it was unleashed, it flowed through his veins as naturally as blood. Angel, too, had killed, but the reasons behind the killings had been less complicated than those that motivated Louis. Angel had killed, variously, because he had to; because had he not done so he himself would have died; and because, most of all, it had seemed like the thing to do at the time. He was not haunted or tormented by those whom he had killed. He wondered, on occasion, if that meant there was something wrong with him. He suspected that it did. But Angel had no urge to kill. He did not seek out violent men in order to confront them, or to test himself against them. Had someone informed him that, from this day forth, he would never have to hold a gun again and would live out his days doing nothing more challenging than breaking locks and eating fried food, he would have been content to do so, as long as Louis was by his side. But therein lay the problem: a life like that was beyond Louis, and to embrace such an existence would have meant sacrificing his partner. Angel’s violence was born out of circumstance; Louis’s was elemental.

That was, in part, why they had remained close to Charlie Parker over the years. Angel owed a debt to the private detective, who had done his best, as a cop, to protect Angel from those who would have harmed him while he was in prison. Angel had never fully understood why Parker had chosen to do that. Angel had helped him with information from time to time, as long as it didn’t involve naming too many names, and he was sure, although they had never spoken of it, that Parker knew something of Angel’s past, of the abuse that he had endured as a child. But there were a lot of criminals out there who could point to troubled childhoods, some of them even worse than Angel’s; pity or empathy were not enough to explain why Parker had chosen to help and, ultimately, befriend him. It was almost, thought Angel, as though Parker had known what was to come. No, not known. That wasn’t it. There were things about Parker that were unusual, even downright spooky, but he wasn’t a seer. Perhaps it was just something as simple as meeting another human being and understanding, immediately and deeply, that this was an individual who belonged in one’s life, for reasons readily apparent or yet to be revealed. Louis had found difficulty in understanding that, at least at the start. Louis did not want cops or ex-cops in his life. Yet he knew what Parker had done for Angel, knew that Angel would not be alive were it not for the strange, troubled private detective who seemed about to break under the weight of his grief and loss, yet somehow refused to do so. In time, Louis had seen something of himself in the other man. They began by respecting each other, and that had developed into a kind of friendship, albeit one that had been tested on more than one occasion. But what Louis and Parker had in common more than anything else, Angel believed, was a kind of darkness. A version of Louis’s fire burned in Parker; a stranger yet more refined form of Louis’s hunger gnawed at him. In a way, they used each other, but each did so with the knowledge, and consent, of his peer.