Jack had to grin as the article went on to describe the eavesdropping devices found in her waiting room, the electronic ear pieces hidden in her hats, the monitors, the trapdoors, and most damning of all, the files on her clients, filled with xeroxes of driver licenses, Social Security cards, bank statements, and notes containing more than a few scathing comments about their weaknesses, predilections, and obsessions. As a result, the Manhattan DA was preparing to add charges of fraud and conspiracy to defraud to the federal counterfeiting rap.
"They're done!" Lyle cried. "Gone! Fried! Fini! Madame Pomerol will be reading palms for cigarettes in either Rikers or a federal pen! Is this your fix?"
"I do believe it is."
"The queer? How'd you manage that? You plant it on them?"
"Trade secret, I'm afraid."
"You done it, G!" Charlie said, grinning for the first time all morning. "You nailed her!"
Jack shrugged. "Sometimes things go according to plan, sometimes they don't. This one did."
He stared at the article, basking in the sunny sensation of a job well done. He'd set the Fosters up for a fall and had known they'd tumble sooner or later. He was glad it turned out to be sooner.
The big if in this particular fix-it had been how they handled their cash. Did they deposit it and write checks, or spend it? Jack had banked on the latter. With a good cash flow—real cash, not checks and charges—that they probably didn't declare, they'd tend to pay for things in cash to leave less of a money trail should the IRS come sniffing.
Lyle clapped Jack on the shoulder. "Remind me never to get on your wrong side, Jack. You are not a man to mess with!"
If Jack had his way, Eli Bellitto would soon feel the same, only worse. Much, much worse.
As they all headed back down to the cellar, Jack sensed a better mood than when they'd started the break. They retrieved the pickaxes and renewed their combined attack on the concrete slab, tossing the broken chunks onto the pile of paneling.
By midday they'd broken up half the slab. After a quick lunch of juicy gyros at a Greek deli up on Ditmars, they returned to work.
"You know what?" Lyle said as he surveyed the rubble mat had once been a basement. "I think two of us should start digging in the dirt while the other keeps after the concrete."
Jack kicked at the hard packed, red-brown soil. Not a hell of a lot softer than the concrete.
"You mean, start looking for Tara."
"Right. The sooner we find her, the sooner we can stop pretending to be day laborers and go back to being gentlemen of leisure."
"How will we know it's her?"
Lyle stared at the dirt. "You still think she's got company down there?"
"I'd bet on it."
"Well, we'll cross that bridge whenever." Lyle looked up at Jack. "You game to dig a little dirt?"
"Not exactly my idea of a fun treasure hunt," Jack said, "but I'll give it a go."
Lyle turned to his brother. "How about you, Charlie? Dirt or 'crete?"
Charlie shrugged. "I'll stick with the slab."
"Okay. We'll rotate around if anybody wants to switch." He leaned toward Jack and spoke in a stage whisper. "And if you should happen to find the remains of the Missing Link while you're digging, don't let Charlie know. He doesn't believe in evolution and it would upset him."
Charlie said, "Step off, Lyle."
My sentiments exactly, Jack thought.
Lyle grabbed the shovel and jammed the spade into the dirt. "Well, it's true, isn't it. You believe the universe was created in six days, right?"
"That what it say in the Bible, so that what I believe."
"So did Bishop Usher, who ran down all the dates in the Bible and the ages of all people mentioned. According to his calculations, the earth was created on October 26, 4004 BC." He tossed a shovel full of dirt aside and struck a pensive pose. "I wonder if that was a.m. or p.m.? Anyway, seems to me the earth's packed an awful lot of growth and development into six thousand years."
Jack grabbed a shovel. "Fascinating. Let's dig."
"That what it say, then that what I believe. We talkin' the word of God, yo."
"Are we?" Lyle raised a finger. "Well, I've got a few words of my own—"
Oh, no, Jack thought. They're off.
"Hey, what is all this?" he said, cutting in. "I didn't always pay my bills doing fix-its. I've done landscaping and worked with nonunion wrecking crews, and all I ever heard guys talk about was booze and broads. But you two—what is it with you guys, anyway?"
Lyle grinned. "Maybe it's because Charlie doesn't drink and we've both been celibate far too long."
"Ay, yo, how 'bout you, Jack?" Charlie said. "What you believe?"
"About what?" he said, although he knew exactly what.
Lyle said, "Faith, god. All that."
That was a little too personal for Jack. He didn't even tell anyone his last name, so he wasn't about to discuss religion with a couple of guys he hadn't known a week. Besides, it wasn't a subject he gave much thought to. In his world, the unseeable and unknowable simply hadn't much mattered.
Until lately.
"I'm pretty much for whatever gets you through the day, as long as you don't start insisting it's the way everyone should get through the day."
"That ain't tellin' nothin'."
"Okay, then, I can tell you that whatever I did believe has been pretty much turned upside down in the past few months."
Lyle looked at him. "All that stuff you told us about the Otherness?"
Jack nodded.
"Here's my problem," Lyle said. "I have just as much trouble believing in your Otherness as I do in Charlie's personal God."
"How about Tara Portman?" Jack said. "And what's been going on in this house? That's not hearsay. You've been here. It's your own experience."
Lyle's cheeks puffed as he let out a breath. "Yeah, I know. This is terra nova for me. I never believed in ghosts or life after death, or even the soul. I assumed when you died you were gone forever. Now… I'm not so sure."
Jack said, "Then maybe we should stop jawing and dig up this terra nova."
Lyle laughed. "Excellent idea!"
The Best of Muddy Waters was in the boombox tray. Jack turned up "Mannish Boy" loud enough to make conversation a chore, then went to work.
By late afternoon, with another Gatorade break somewhere in the middle, they'd pocked the surface of the dirt with holes but hadn't come across a single bone.
"We've only been going down three feet or so," Lyle said. "Maybe that's not deep enough."
Jack leaned on his shovel. "Hate to think they went the full traditional six."
"Might have. Especially if they wanted to be sure of not having any telltale odors. Which means we have to go down six."
Jack's T-shirt was soaked. He looked around. The pile of smashed paneling and broken concrete already took up one end of the cellar. They'd added some of the dirt to it, but they'd be running out of room soon.
"You're talking a lot of dirt."
"Tell me about it. Look, I know it's been a long day, but I'd like to keep after this."
"There's always tomorrow," Jack said.
Charlie stopped digging and looked at his brother. "No there ain't."
Jack opened his mouth but Lyle cut him off.
"Don't ask. Look, why don't we take another break and see if we can come up with a systematic way of going about finding her."
Jack glanced at his watch. "I've got an errand to run, but I should be back in an hour and a half or so."
"I'm going to have to bail soon myself. That Forest Hills women's club thing."
"That's right," Charlie said. "Everybody run off and leave baby brother to do all the work."
Jack laughed. "I'll be back to help out as soon as I can."
"Where're you off to?" Lyle said.
"To make sure the last piece of the Tara Portman puzzle fits where I think it does."
2
As Jack rode the N train back to Manhattan he de
bated stopping off at his place or Gia's and taking a shower. He damn sure needed one. By the time he reached the decision point at Fifty-ninth Street, he decided it would take too much time. He stayed on the train as it turned downtown. When he reached SoHo he made a quick pass by Bellitto's store and noted the sturgeon was no longer in the window. Too bad; he'd kind of liked it. Took a peek through the glass of the door and saw the older woman with the jet-black hair helping a customer. She was the one he wanted to talk to. He'd got the impression she'd grown old with the store. But Kevin was there too, behind the counter.
He moved on, frustrated.
Damn. He'd hoped this would be the kid's day off. No sign of Bellitto or the gorilla-armed Minkin though, which was good. Doubted they'd recognize him after their encounter in the dark, but didn't want to take the chance. This was primarily an information-gathering trip, with maybe a little cage-rattling bonus thrown in. He knew he'd eventually have to deal with those two before they zeroed in on another kid. But Bellitto was laid up for the present, so Jack had some time to plan his course.
Jack found a shady doorway with a view of the front of the shop and waited, watching the shadows lengthen and the traffic thicken. Evening was edging into the picture and he didn't have all that much time, but there was always a chance Kevin would clock out or make a Starbucks run. He needed to talk to the lady alone. If he couldn't do it face to face, he'd try the phone, but that would be settling for second best.
He thought about what Gia had told him about the mystery cop from the unknown precinct. He didn't like anyone, maybe cops especially, knocking on Gia's door and asking the whereabouts of her daughter. Nobody's damn business but Gia's. And Jack's too, sometimes.
He pulled out his Tracfone and called her to see if the cop had stopped back. She said no. All quiet on the East Side. He told her they hadn't found anything yet at Menelaus Manor and not to wait dinner for him—he'd be late tonight. She sounded tired. She hadn't been sleeping well. He told her to take a nap and she said she might just do that.
After saying good-bye, Jack turned off the phone. Didn't want Bellitto calling him again. Let him wonder. Let him stew.
Jack's patience finally was rewarded by the sight of Kevin stepping out and hurrying down the sidewalk. Didn't know how long he'd be gone so Jack hustled over to the shop.
"Yes, sir?" the woman behind the counter boomed as he entered. She had a mannish build, with broad shoulders and a hefty frame. Above her Richard Belzer face her black hair looked spit shined. She eyed his sweat-stained T-shirt, dirty jeans, and grimy hands with poorly disguised disdain. Obviously he didn't look like a typical Shurio Coppe customer.
Knew I should have showered, he thought.
He decided to adopt a personality to go with the look. He rounded his shoulders and made only the briefest eye contact.
"Um…"
"Are you looking to buy something, sir?"
"Uh, well, no, y'see," he said in a meek, faltering voice, "I was kinda like wondering if—"
Jack heard the bell on the door tinkle behind him and turned to see a big no-neck guy with outlandishly long arms limp through. Adrian Minkin, in the flesh. Jack tensed and looked away as he approached.
"Eli wants the book again," Minkin said as he brushed past Jack and stepped to the counter.
He wore black slacks and a long-sleeve white dress shirt.
The woman made a face. "That's the third time already," she said. "Why doesn't he just call down?"
Minkin leaned on the counter, just a couple of feet away, giving Jack his first close-up look at Minkin's hands in good light. Massive, with wiry black hair crawling all the way out to the third knuckle on the long thick fingers.
"You know how he is, Gert." Minkin leaned closer and lowered his voice. "He's very tense, waiting for a call, plus I think he's bored out of his mind."
"Bad combination," Gert said, handing him a black ledger. "Just get it back to me as soon as he's finished."
"Will do."
When he turned he came face to face with Jack. He stopped and stared for a few heartbeats that seemed to stretch into minutes. Jack met his cold blue eyes, looking for signs of recognition and readying to make a move the instant he saw the first hint. But Minkin only blinked, nodded, and moved on.
"Sorry for the interruption, sir," Gert said. "What can I help you with? Looking for anything in particular?"
"Yes, well, I…" Jack shuffled closer to the counter, killing time until he heard the bell chime and the door close behind Minkin. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was gone, but he made it into a timid gesture. "I'm looking for Mr. Menelaus. Mr. Dmitri Menelaus."
Gert blinked. "Mr. Menelaus? What would you want with him?"
Jack wished she'd cut her volume. Wouldn't be surprised if Bellitto and Minkin could hear her upstairs.
"I, um, did some masonry work for him some years ago, y'know, in his cellar, and he said I should meet him here."
Gert's eyes narrowed. "Did he now? And when was this?"
"Oh, um, just this morning, on the phone."
"This morning? Oh, I doubt that very much. He's been dead for years."
"Get out! You're lying!"
"Sir, I do not lie. He was a regular customer. He and the owner were quite close."
"I figured that."
Jack took a deep breath and let it out. There it was. The final link between the Menelaus house, Tara Portman, and Eli Bellitto.
Gert shook her head. "Tragic the way he died."
"Not tragic at all," Jack said, dropping out of character. "I'm pretty sure it was long overdue."
Gert's eyes widened as she straightened her wide shoulders. "What?"
Jack turned and strode for the door. "Thanks lady. Tell Eli I was asking after Dmitri."
"You know Mr. Bellitto? Who are you?"
"Just tell him. He'll know." Jack hit the sidewalk and headed straight for the subway.
3
"This is not to be borne!"
Eli slammed the phone down. He could barely speak. The brazenness of the man! The absolute gall!
"What is it?" Adrian said, hovering.
"It was him! The mysterious 'Jack'! He was just in the shop asking Gert about Dmitri!"
Adrian gaped at him. "Just now? Then I saw him. I looked right at him and didn't recognize him. But then of course I wouldn't recognize him since I still don't remember what happened Monday night. The last thing I remem—"
"What did he look like?"
"Like… like a common laborer. He was dirty and he smelled sweaty. I can't believe—"
"Believe it! He said he'd had a call from Dmitri telling him to meet him in the shop."
Adrian paled. "But Dmitri's dead."
Eli glanced at him. What had always impressed him most about Adrian, besides his size, was his swift mind; but since those blows to his head his mental functions seemed to have slowed to a walk.
"I'm well aware of that. He's just trying to rattle us." Though Eli said us, he meant me. "He wants to keep us off balance."
"But why?"
Suddenly Eli saw it all, comprehended the mystery man's plan in all its terrible simplicity.
"He wants to prevent us from performing the Ceremony during this cycle. That will put terrible pressure on us because we'll have to complete the Ceremony during the next cycle, the last new moon before the equinox, or…"
His words dried up as he contemplated the consequences.
Adrian was staring at him. "Or what? What will happen?"
"To you? Nothing much. Your string of Ceremonies will be broken and you'll have to go back and start at one again."
Adrian groaned. "Oh, God, no."
"But for me it will be much, much worse. If I fail, all the diseases and traumas I've been shielded from for the past two centuries will rush upon me and crush me."
Terror squeezed his shuddering heart in a cold fist. He'd die slowly and in unimaginable agony. And then the interloper would be free to take over the Circle.
>
That was why this Jack hadn't killed him Monday night. He wanted Eli to suffer a month of pain and anxiety before a horrible death.
"And to think I was that close!" Adrian gritted through clenched teeth. "If only I'd known I'd have…" He balled his hands before him, crushing huge fistfuls of air.
"He won't win!" Eli cried. "He thinks that by stealing our lamb he's sabotaged our Ceremony for this cycle. He can't know about the DiLauro woman's child—we didn't know ourselves until yesterday. We can still beat him."
He snatched up the phone, punched in Strauss's beeper number, and left a message to call back. The phone rang minutes later.
"Progress?" Eli snapped as soon as he recognized Strauss's voice.
"Some. Not moving as fast as I'd like. What's wrong?"
He filled Strauss in on the mystery man's latest stunt without getting into his theory of what the man was planning. "What's the hold-up? What are you doing?"
"I'm not sure I want to say," Strauss said. "With all this guy seems to know, how can we be sure your line's not tapped?"
Eli felt his chest tighten. The possibility had never occurred to him.
"Can you check the line?"
"Yeah, but not today. We got some situations here that won't allow me to get down there till late tonight."
Not good enough. Eli needed to know now. Then he had an idea.
"Fax it to me."
"What?"
"You heard me. Jot it down or type it out. Be as oblique as you wish—I'll understand—and fax it. You destroy the original, I'll burn the copy at this end, and no one but we will know."
A pause on the other end, then, "All right. That might work. Just make sure you burn it right off."
"I'll have the matches ready."
He gave Strauss his personal fax number, then hung up. Twelve minutes later the machine rang, then started printing out a brief, scrawled message.
Our financial friend got the ladys checking account records but no check written to a camp. Looking into credit cards but that takes longer. Will know by tonight and fax results ASAP.