Читать книгу Angel of Death - Christian Russell - Страница 12

CHAPTER EIGHT

Friday, October 16

Mark was at his desk frowning at some papers that he had just received. Three days after the Majestic attempt, they had finally managed to trace Edward Druller. That was one way of putting it, for the NYPD had actually found his body burnt almost beyond recognition. His car had fallen into a precipice near Newark airport. The Ford had caught fire and Druller with it. At least those were the preliminary results. As soon as they had been able to examine his remains properly, they had found a nice bullet hole in his skull. Who had executed him and why? Anyway, his fault had been too big to let him live on.

Now Mark was impatiently waiting for the forensic’s report hoping for more details. All of a sudden the door was pushed open and Sean Paulardis came in triumphantly in his well-known navy blue outfit.

“Hi, everyone!” he said and made his cowboy hat land on his desk. “Your hero’s back, my friends. My hand got numb giving all those autographs. But for you, I’m willing to put in some extra effort.”

“Save your scribbling,” Steimberg cut him short while hugging him. Mark did the same.

“How about you, Mary?” the Greek turned to the woman. “Is that your way of welcoming a hero?”

The girl gave him half a smile. “Welcome, Sean. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Not a very warm welcome, I’m afraid,” Paulardis said. “Well, that’s it! Tell me something, though: is there any chance my making the front page of The New Yorker might affect your option for the Halloween ball?”

Mary shook her head firmly. And to avoid further discussion on the topic she asked. “Does anyone know if there’s any coffee left in that machine in the hall?”

No one answered her as the much longed-for Dr. Milles and Kurren had just come in through the door. Milles went straight to Mark’s desk with a bundle of papers in his left hand while Kurren greeted O’Gavin cheerfully.

“Hi, Mary. Let me tell you I’ve got three choices for the outfit: a vampire, a mummy, or a ghost. Which would you prefer?”

The young woman didn’t have time to answer as Sean cut in. “But you don’t need to wear an outfit for any of them, Burt! Go to the ball the way you are. As for Mary, I suggest you keep your charm away from her. If you don’t, I might get upset!”

“Really? And what might that do to me?”

“I don’t know,” the Greek answered, “maybe some massive irradiation coming from about a dozen X-rays.”

Kurren looked at Mary and saw her flushing, lowering her head into her hands. He was almost ten inches taller than Paulardis so he drew close and reprimanded him. “You’ve got a big mouth, Sean, did you know that?”

“Yeah, I did. Actually, everything I own is big!”

Mark sprang to his feet and positioned himself between the two roosters.

“Calm down, boys! The fact that ‘cute little Mary’ works on my team is no reason why you should turn this office into a battleground. Women do that sometimes, start conflicts. First it was Helen of Troy, now it’s Mary of Poplar Bluff. I’m sure she’d love to smack you both right now. Come on, shake hands!”

The two shook hands somehow reluctantly. Mark took Kurren to the door and told him. “Burt, take my advice and choose your costume yourself. That’ll show you’ve got personality and women just love that in a man.” Then he returned to his desk. “Sorry for wasting your time, doctor. Let’s hear what you’ve got for us.”

“Hmm. Not vey much, I’m afraid. Druller was shot with a .9 mm Beretta, a recoilless gun, with a fifteen-bullet magazine, the kind pros use. No carbon monoxide in his blood. No soot at the ends of his trachea. He was dead when the Ford caught fire.”

“Have you identified him properly?” Mark asked. “Are you absolutely sure it’s Eddie Druller?” He was intrigued by the fact that the car had had a full tank and two big cans in the trunk. It looked as if, by burning the car, the killer had wanted to make his identification impossible.

“Yes. First of all he had his papers on him. Several unburned fragments have been recovered. The police also showed pieces of his clothes to some neighbors who identified them. I looked for his dentist and got his X-rays. We took our own set. The lower jaw one is a perfect match. We found about fifty points in common. And you only need twenty for a positive identification. That’s about all I can tell you, Mark.”

Meanwhile Paulardis had managed to pull a file from under the doctor’s arm and was looking through it, a pervert’s grin on his face. “Good-looking naked chicks,” he said. “What about them, doc?”

“It’s for the Vice guys. Some hookers, kidnapped and molested.”

While he was still looking at the pictures, Sean asked Steimberg. “Arty, got any nude pictures of your wife?”

“’Course not, you, maniac.”

The Greek pretended to look closer at one of the pictures. “And wouldn’t you like one?”

Everyone in the office was silent. Obviously this time Sean’s humor had gone too far. Dr. Milles recovered his file and left the office, embarrassed. Steimberg drew close to Paulardis and looked at him sadly and spitelessly.

“You shouldn’t have said a thing like that, Sean. The woman you’ve just offended is a mother. The mother of three wonderful children. When you meet a girl you want to care for, when you understand a baby’s more than a sperm spurt, well, then you’ll see how stupid your joke is and how much it can hurt. I’m going out for a breath of fresh air,” Arty said and left the office.

Mark frowned at Paulardis. “What the hell is wrong with you today, man? As far as I can remember you were shot in the shoulder, not in the head. Give me one good reason for doing that!”

“But it was just an innocent joke,” the Greek said. “We do that sometimes among friends and colleagues.”

“Maybe that’s something you did in the Bronx,” Mark replied sternly. “Now you’re an FBI agent, man. And Arty’s your colleague. One who’s never let you down. You don’t like him? I couldn’t care less. This is not a ballroom to like your partner. In this job partnership is based on respect and complete trust.”

“I’m sorry, Mark,” Sean seemed to be finally accepting his guilt. “I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. I do care about him, you know? Maybe you’re right. There is something of a Bronx bully in me. The problem is what can I do now?”

Mary sprang from her desk, still flushed. “You’d better get an appointment with Dr. Kevorkian.”

Mark calmed her down with a wave of his hand. Then he grabbed Sean by the arm. “Go and apologize to him. Arty’s such a good guy he might even forgive you.”

As soon as Paulardis left, Mary said to her boss indignantly. “I’ve told you before, Mark, if someone considered an anima in this office, the result would be navy blue.”

But the agent did not have time to answer her as the phone started to ring. He picked up the receiver. “Hello!”

“I’d like to speak to Agent Mark Du Nancy,” he heard a voice that made his heart throb.

“This is he, Miss Wheller.”

“Dorothy,” she corrected him. “Have you forgotten already? Tell me, Mark, have you got any plans for Sunday evening?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Sunday’s my father’s birthday and we’re having a little party at my uncle’s villa, near South Mountain Reservation. We’d all appreciate it if you could come. You can bring your wife with you if you want.”

The agent wondered why she had mentioned Cathy but never thought to ask about Steimberg and especially Paulardis who had taken the bullet for them. He weighed the unfair omission against the perspective of a new meeting with the actress. To his surprise, the latter weighed more. To numb his conscience he said to himself that they probably believed Sean was still in hospital.

“I don’t know what to say. Anyway, I can’t bring my wife with me. We’re hardly on speaking terms.”

“Well, come alone then! I’m going to leave some openings on my dance card for you. And you don’t have to wear your tux. It won’t be anything formal. It’s a mixed party: both outside and in the reception room.”

“What time?”

“If you tell me where to send the limo, the chauffeur will pick you up around 5:00 p.m. so that you can be here at 6:00.”

Mark gave her the address, thrilled at the thought of seeing her again, feeling her body against his while dancing. Only after he hung up did he recall his decision and realize that he had given her the wrong address. That’s all right, he’d call her tomorrow and tell her the name of the hotel at which he was staying.

After that he could not think of anything else. His colleagues (in the meantime the two reconciled agents had returned) did not ask him any questions, although they were all dying to know.

Mark heaved a sigh of relief when the workday was over. As he was heading for the coat rack, he said to Steimberg. “Listen, Arty, you’re a movie fan. You know all the actors, right? Tell me, how the hell does Freddie McGuire wear his hair?” The agent smiled and poured out all the details.

Outside the building Paulardis tried to make up with his female colleague. He pulled his beautiful Corvette next to her. “I’m sorry about that argument with Kurren, Mary. I take all responsibility. Can I drive you home?”

“Are you going south?”

“Indeed I am,” he answered hopefully.

“Well then, give my regards to the Mexicans.”

* * * * * * *

On his way home Mark tried to pull himself together. A difficult moment was lying ahead: the discussion with Cathy. He was trying to convince himself that his decision to break up with her had nothing to do with the actress. After all, he had decided to move to a hotel on Monday, after that argument from which he had emerged like a whipped dog. As for Dorothy, he hadn’t done anything that he should feel sorry for. He wondered if his wife had seen that picture in The New York Times. The one that showed him leading the actress protectively by the shoulders out of the theatre. Damn it! he concluded. I worry too much about a marriage that died years ago.

The thing that was really breaking his heart was Tommy’s predicament. How was he to explain all that to the little boy? Anyway, rather than keep him in the middle of a war they should share his affection in times of peace.

When he parked his car outside his house, Mark felt he was in a mood for a row, which hadn’t happened in a long time. He was going to put in a good fight this time.

After he got in he looked for his wife. He saw her on the couch. She was just finishing a cosmetic procedure. She had put a mixture of creams on her face. Only her eyes shone through.

“I didn’t know we’re having a masquerade,” the man said sourly.

“That’s a beauty mask,” explained Cathy who was trying to relax following McGerr’s advice. “Jenny, our neighbor, told me how to do it. And I’ve been using it every day for three weeks now. What do you think: am I doing it for nothing or does it really make me look better?”

“Of course it does. What I really don’t understand is why you ever wipe that off!”

The woman was stunned by this sudden hostility coming from her husband whose attitude was usually that of non-combat. What had happened? Mark didn’t give her the time to ask anything. He ran upstairs straight to his bedroom. He pulled a big leather suitcase from under the bed. Then he opened the wardrobe sorting his clothes, throwing some into the case. Cathy finally showed up in the doorway, speechless, failing to understand what was going on.

“What are you doing, Mark?” she asked him after a while.

The man didn’t answer. He was done with the clothes and was now squeezing in his towels and toilet items. Then he started looking for something anxiously. As he couldn’t find it he questioned the woman harshly. “Where’s my insignia jacket?”

“Ask the guys from the sanitation service,” she answered coldly.

“I thought we had some rules around here. The things that bring luck don’t get thrown away. That jacket brought me luck in college and even some more years after that.”

“But it was full of holes.”

“It was. But each hole had its own story. It was a jacket full of memories.”

“Of course,” she replied angrily. “Full of memories with whores in the bushes and second-hand cars.”

Mark turned to her instantly. He gave her a look full of pain and pity. “You’re pathetic, Cathy! And at times like this you make me sick. I’ve decided to separate from you. At least for a while. That’s why I’m moving out to a hotel.”

There was panic in the woman’s eyes. “Why are you doing this to me, Mark? Is it because last Monday I gave you a passionate speech on how you should behave? I just wanted you to spend more time with me and the boy and to take over some of the chores.”

“In that case you should have married a penguin or a stork,” he retorted calmly zipping the suitcase and grabbing it ready to leave. He gently pushed the woman away from the door, went out and started climbing down the stairs. Tommy stormed out of his playroom.

“Daddy, you’re home!” he exclaimed joyfully. Then he noticed the suitcase and asked a little sadly. “Are you going some place, dad?”

Mark nodded. He took the boy in his arms and kissed him.

“When will you be back?” his son asked.

The man avoided a direct answer. “Tomorrow I’ll be here to take you to the game like I promised.” He kissed the boy again and put him down. “Run, now, go finish the Michael Jordan puzzle!”

Tommy ran into his room and the spouses looked at each other in silence.

“Tell me, Mark, are you sure that damned actress whose life they say you’ve saved has nothing to do with it? I saw you both in the paper and you did look like her guardian angel.”

Mark looked at her in surprise. Was that the typical wife syndrome, that is hate for any woman who comes near her husband? Or was it the famous feminine intuition? He favored the latter. His wife was an intelligent woman who had worked for years as a reporter. So he shook his head pretty unconvincingly, which she didn’t fail to notice.

“We’ll talk on the phone, Cathy,” he said on his way out.

She shouted angrily behind him. “Watch out for that door, Mark, don’t let it hit you!” Then she dropped on the couch and wiped the cream off her face with a towel.

Tommy showed up in the hall again. He had finished the game and wanted to show it to his father. He noticed he was gone and asked his mother. “Where did Daddy go?”

“He went to a hotel,” Cathy said, still in shock.

“But why, mummy?” the child insisted candidly.

Cathy put him on her lap and stroked his head. “I don’t know, Tommy! He got bored here, probably. It happens sometimes, you know. When men grow bored, they start a war or move out to a hotel.”