4
Jack stopped in front of Municipal Coins on West Fifty-fourth. He'd planned to come by yesterday but Gia's revelation had blown that plan clear out of the water.
Midday sun gleamed off the polished gold and silver coins in the window display, but Jack's attention was more focused on Eli Bellitto's last words than on precious metals.
I don't have a brother named Edward or anything else. I'm an only child.
Somebody was lying.
Eli Bellitto was a child molester, most likely a child killer-you go to the trouble of abducting a child as Bellitto and his buddy had, you're not likely to let him go-so lying was hardly a stretch. But why lie about having a brother to someone you thought was a hospital administrator? Unless you didn't want to acknowledge that brother.
But Eli Bellitto hadn't sounded like he was lying. Edward, on the other hand...
The phone number he'd given Jack was bogus, as was no doubt much of the story he'd laid on him. Edward had a Irish accent, Eli didn't. The two supposed brothers looked nothing alike.
No question... Edward had lied.
What particularly rankled Jack was that he'd made Edward-if that was his real first name; his last sure as hell wasn't Bellitto-for a straight shooter. Every so often a customer tried to pull a fast one, but Jack usually found out before any damage was done. Since many of his jobs involved getting even, with maybe inflicting a little hurt on someone if necessary, Jack made sure to do a fair amount of backgrounding before he took any action. But Edward had wanted Jack to keep people from being hurt, so he'd taken the man at his word.
But if he wasn't Eli Bellitto's brother, who the hell was he? Had he hired Jack to be there when Bellitto snatched that child? Seemed so. But how had he known?
Jack figured chances were slim to none he'd ever find out.
Still, he wasn't quite ready to write this off as a bad deal. Not yet. The phone number Edward had given him wouldn't allow that. If you're going to leave a phony number, you simply write down an area code and seven random digits. Why leave one out? It didn't make sense.
Jack's brain held a closetful of things that didn't make sense. He'd pitch this in with the rest.
He pushed through the door and entered the cool interior of Municipal Coins.
"Mr. Blake!" said a man who had been rearranging a tray in a long row of display cases. He bustled forward and shook Jack's hand. "So good to see you again!"
"Hello, Monte. Call me Jack, okay?"
He'd been telling Monte for years to call him Jack but the man must have been born with an extra formality gene that made it impossible for him to address a customer by his first name.
"I'll do that," he said. "Yes, I'll do that."
Monte was half owner of Municipal Coins. Every time Jack looked at him, the word thick sprang to mind: thick body, thick lips, even his curly black hair. But he moved like a ferret. Had a numismatic database for a brain and an MBA from Yale, but the only business he had any desire to administrate was rare coins.
"Just bought a big collection," he said, motioning Jack toward the rear of the store where he kept the cream of his inventory. "Some incredible pieces came in last week. You've got to see them. Absolutely gem."
Jack was one of Monte's regular customers. Probably saw him as a well-heeled collector of rare coins, but Jack's stash of coins was more than a collection. They were his life savings..
Without a Social Security number-a real one-he couldn't invest in CDs or stocks; he wouldn't have wanted to under any circumstances because that would mean paying taxes, a burden Jack had managed to avoid thus far in his life. So whenever he accumulated a lump of cash, he put it into gold coins, some of them bullion type, like Krugerrands, but mostly the rare and collectible. Not an exciting investment, but other facets of his life provided enough adrenaline and he saw no need to look for more in the investment realm. He'd missed the rocketing stocks of the nineties, but he'd also missed the crash of the aughts.
"Not looking for coins today, Monte," Jack said.
And I won't be buying many more if I keep allowing myself to get stiffed by customers who lie to me.
"Just a social call then?" Monte said, doing a fair job of hiding his disappointment. "Always good to see you, Mr. Blake, no matter what the occasion."
"But I am in the market for something to display my coins. Where are those clamshell cases you've been telling me about?"
Monte had been pushing a new line of pocket-sized display cases on Jack for months, telling him they were the latest and greatest thing for the collector who wanted to safeguard his coins when he showed them off. Jack had repeatedly turned him down.
"What're you planning?" Monte said, grinning as he reached up and pulled a cardboard box from a wall rack. "Taking them to a show? Or maybe give the relatives a peek?"
The last thing Jack wanted to do with his collection was display it, but he was going to have to bite the bullet and bring some of them out for the Madame Pomerol sting.
"Relatives," Jack told him. "Gonna give my Uncle Matt a peek."
"Lucky him."
From the box Monte removed a pair of keys and an oblong metal case that ran eight inches long and was just shy of five inches wide; its tapered brushed chrome surface gleamed under the lights.
"See?" Monte said, pointing. "Recessed hinges at this end and a lock at the other."
He stuck one of the keys into the keyhole and turned it. The lid popped open revealing a clear plastic shield. Under that, gray felt molded into angled slots that would display coins of varying sizes.
"But the real beauty of it is this shield here: Tough clear plastic that keeps people's hands off. Remember that old song, 'You can look but you'd better not touch'?"
"'Poison Ivy,' " Jack said. "The Coasters. Atco label. Nineteen-fifty-nine."
"Oh. Right. Yeah, well, that's what this case is all about. And if anyone, God forbid, knocks the case over, the shield will keep your coins from rolling all over creation."
Jack turned the case over in his hands. Perfect.
"How do I open the shield?"
"Another beauty feature. See that little lever recessed into the side? You turn your key over and use the edge to pull it up to where you can grab it. No one 'accidentally' popping open the lid."
"Beautiful," Jack said. "I'll take two."
5
Jack stepped out of the Sports Authority on Sixth Avenue in Chelsea with his purchases tucked into the same bag as the coin cases. He now had the raw materials for his encounter with Madame Pomerol this afternoon; all he had to do was assemble them. That would take half an hour, tops, which meant he still had a couple of hours to kill.
A trip down to the Shurio Coppe might be in order. Chat up the staff. See how the boss was doing. Maybe even cop a shurio.
He decided to walk. He liked to stroll the city, especially on warm days like this when the sidewalks were crowded. It fed his people-watching jones and kept him in tune with what the average New Yorker was wearing.
Average New Yorker... right. If such a creature existed, it was a chimerical beast. Take a simple item like men's headwear, for instance. In the first few blocks heading downtown Jack passed a gray-suited Sikh wearing a red turban, a three-hundred-pound black guy in a tiny French beret, a skinny little white guy in a Special Forces beret, a rabbi type wearing-despite the heat-a long frock coat and a wide-brimmed black sealskin hat, and then the usual run of doo-wraps, Kangols, kufis, and yarmulkes.
But Jack was gratified to see that the most common headwear by far was what he was wearing: the baseball cap. Yankee caps outnumbered Mets, but not by much. Jack's sported the orange Mets insignia. Although ninety percent of the caps he saw were worn backwards or sideways, and although Jack tended to avoid nonconformist looks, he wore his beak first. Backwards, the adjustable strap irritated his forehead; beak first it shadowed his face.
He figured in his Mets cap, aviator mirror shades, white Nike T-shirt, jeans, and tan work boots he was as good as invisible.
Jack walked through the door of the Shurio Coppe at around 1 p.m. He didn't see any customers. He found the red-haired assistant behind the marble sales counter unpacking a box. Jack noticed the return address: N. Van Rijn-Import/Export.
"Is Eli in?"
"Are you a friend of his?"
"I ran into him last night."
The clerk blinked. "You did? When?"
"Last night. Why? Is something wrong?"
"Yes! He's in the hospital!"
"Really? Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. This is shocking! Did he have a heart attack or something?"
"No! He was stabbed! It happened right around the corner. Right on his own doorstep!"
Jack slapped his hands against his cheeks. "Get out! Is he all right?"
A nod. "I think so. He called earlier and said he should be home in a few days, but he won't be back to work for a while. It's terrible, just terrible."
"Isn't it, though," Jack replied, shaking his head sadly. "What kind of a world is it when an innocent man gets stabbed for no reason at all?"
"I know. Terrible."
"Which hospital?"
"St. Vincent's."
"I'll have to stop by and see how he's doing."
"I'm sure he'd like that." The assistant shook his head again, then took a deep breath and looked at Jack. "In the meantime, is there something in particular I can help you with?"
"No," Jack said. "I think I'll just browse." He looked around. "You're here alone? Where's...?"
"Gert? She's off and I can't reach her. She'll be back tomorrow." He looked around uncertainly at the laden shelves. "I wish she were here now."
I don't, Jack thought. This is perfect.
He placed the bag with his purchases on the counter. "Would you watch this if I leave it here?"
"I'd be happy to."
Of course he would. Shops like this paid extra attention to browsers with shopping bags. All it took was the flick of a finger to push an expensive little item off a shelf and into a bag. Giving up the bag would make the clerk less watchful and free up both of Jack's hands.
The object of Jack's desire lay in the locked display case rightward and rearward, so he headed left front. He found an old, wooden, owl-shaped clock whose eyes moved counter to the pendulum. Or at least they were supposed to. It appeared to have been overwound. The price wasn't bad. He already had a black plastic cat clock with moving eyes at home; this would make a good partner. An owl and a pussy cat.
Jack carried the clock to the counter.
"If you can get this working, I'll buy it."
The clerk smiled. "I'll see what I can do."
That should keep him occupied, Jack thought as he sidled away to the right, toward the old oak display case.
Had his shim picks ready by the time he reached it. Checked the second shelf and, yes, the Roger Rabbit key ring still lay among the other tchotchkes. And the padlock still locked the door.
He'd noted Sunday that the lock was a British brand, a B&G pin tumbler model. Good, solid lock, but hardly foolproof. Opening it was a five-second procedure: two to find the shim with the right diameter for the shackle, one to slide the little winged piece of steel into the shackle hole of the lock housing, one to give it a twist, and another to pop the lock.
Jack pocketed the shims. A quick glance around-the clerk was bent over the clock and no one else in sight-then another five seconds to slip off the lock, open the door, grab Roger Rabbit, close and relock the door.
Success.
He stared at the cheap little key ring. It felt strange in his hand... just a bit too cool against the flesh of his palm, as if he'd pulled it from a refrigerator. And still that imploring look in Roger's wide blue eyes.
Originally he'd wanted it for Vicky. But Vicky wasn't involved anymore; he didn't want her near anything Eli Bellitto had owned, touched, or had even looked at. Jack wasn't sure why he wanted it now. Bellitto had turned down a ridiculous amount of money for the silly thing. That meant it was important to him. And what was important to Bellitto might be important to Jack. Or maybe Jack wanted the key ring to harass Eli Bellitto, just for the sheer hell of it.
Before turning away he let his gaze roam once more over the shelves of the display case and the junk they carried... the Pogs and Matchbox car and Koosh ball and...
A notion struck Jack, a possibility so sick and cold he felt a layer of frost form on his skin.
These were all toys... kids' stuff... all belonging to a guy who'd snatched a kid last night.
Jack stood before the cabinets and swayed with the vertiginous certainty that these were trophies, mementos emptied from the pockets of other missing kids. And Eli Bellitto was flaunting them. How many hundreds, even thousands of people had walked by this case and stared at its contents, never guessing that each one represented a dead child?
Jack couldn't bring himself to count the items. Instead he looked down at the key ring in his hand.
Who did you belong to? Where is your little owner buried? How did he die? Why did he die?
Roger's eyes had lost their imploring look. They were a flat dead blue now. Maybe Jack had simply imagined that look, but it had served its purpose: He wasn't through with Eli Bellitto.
He wondered what his own face looked like. He had to compose his expression, look calm, casual.
He took a deep breath, let it out. Tossing the key ring casually in his hand, he headed for the counter.
"Sorry," the clerk said as he approached. He tapped the owl clock before him on the counter. "I can't get it working."
Jack shrugged. "I'll take it anyway." He knew a clock-smith who'd have it ticking in half a minute. "What's your name, by the way?"
"Kevin."
"I'm Jack, Kevin." They shook hands. "You're new here, aren't you."
"Fairly."
Chalk one up for me, he thought. He'd got the impression on Sunday that this fellow was new.
"Well, good luck here. It's a great store. Oh, yeah," he said, as if suddenly remembering. He tossed the key ring onto the counter. "I'll take this as well."
Kevin picked it up and turned it over, examining it. "Never seen this before."
Jack let out a breath. He'd been counting on that. Even if Kevin had been working here awhile, he might not have paid attention to the contents of a cabinet he couldn't open.
"I found it on a shelf back there."
"Where?"
Jack jerked a thumb to the right. "Back there."
"Hmmm. Trouble is, there's no price on it. I don't even think we carry anything like this."
"I'll give you, oh, say, ten bucks for it."
Kevin reached for the phone. "I'd better just check with Mr. Bellitto first."
Jack stiffened. "Hey, don't bother Eli. I'm sure he needs his rest."
"No, it's okay. He told me to call if I have any questions."
Jack suppressed a groan as Kevin tapped in the numbers. He'd wanted to slip away with the key ring-no fuss, no hassle. That might not be possible now. But if he had to grab it and walk out over Kevin's objections, that was what he'd do. One way or another, Jack and Roger were leaving together.
Apparently Kevin called Bellitto's room directly because seconds later he said, "Hello, Mr. Bellitto, it's Kevin. Sorry to bother you, but I've got an item here with no price tag and I was wondering-"
Even from his spot across the counter Jack could hear the angry squawking from the ear piece.
"Yes, sir, but you see-"
More squawks.
"I understand. Yes, sir, I will." He hung up. "I'm afraid this is going to take a while. I'm going to have to go through the inventory and find similar items and price this accordingly." He shook his head as he gazed at the key ring. "Trouble is, I'm pretty sure we don't-"
"Let me make it easy for both of us," Jack said. "I'll pay for the clock and give you ten bucks for the key ring. If it comes to more, I'll settle up. If it's less, I get a refund. Sound fair?"
"I guess so..."
Jack picked up the key ring and dangled it between them. "Hey, let's face it, Kev, we're not talking about a Ming vase here. Just find some paper and write down, 'Roger Rabbit key ring-ten bucks-Jack.'"
"I'll put it in the sale book," he said, opening a black ledger. Kevin dutifully wrote it all down, then looked up. "Just Jack?"
"Sure. Eli will know."
Maybe not right away, Jack thought as he pulled out his wallet. But soon. Very soon.
Jack wanted Bellitto to know the key ring was gone. Because that was when he would begin wondering and worrying.
Jack planned to give him lots to worry about.
6
Morphine might help pain, Eli Bellitto thought as he pressed the PCA pump's button for another dose, but it does nothing for anger.
Imagine Kevin calling him in the hospital with a question like that. Why couldn't you get good help?
He wondered if it might have been unwise to castigate Kevin as severely as he had. With Gert off today and not answering her phone, he was minding the store on his own. No telling what untold damage a disgruntled clerk might do.
Eli was reaching for the phone to call him back when Detective Fred Strauss made his second visit of the day. Strauss managed to be lean and yet paunchy. He wore a green golf shirt under his wrinkled tan suit. As he closed the door behind him, he removed his straw fedora, revealing thinning brown hair.
"It's safe to talk?" Strauss said in a low voice as he pulled a chair closer to the bed.
Eli nodded. "Did you learn anything?"
Strauss worked Vice in Midtown South. He, like Adrian, was a member of Eli's Circle.
"I checked with every emergency room from the Battery into the Bronx. No guy with the kind of stab wound you describe. Are you sure you nailed him?"
"Of course, I'm sure." Eli knew what it felt like to drive a steel blade into human flesh. "He may think he can take care of the wound himself, but he'll need professional care."
"Yeah, but if he knows the right people, he won't need an ER."
How different things would be, Eli thought, if the stranger hadn't rolled aside at that last instant. The knife would have sliced into his lungs once, twice, many times. Eli would now be sitting comfortably at home, and Strauss's only concern would be how to dispose of the stranger's body.
"Nothing else?"
"Well, they found a witness who says she saw a guy running with a child-size bundle in the area, but with the dark and the rain she couldn't even give the color of his hair."
Eli tried to dredge up some distinguishing feature about his attacker but came up empty. What little light had been available had come from behind, leaving his face in darkness. His hair had been drenched with rain. Dry, it could have been brown or black.
But he remembered the voice, that cold, flat voice after he'd driven Eli's own knife into his groin...
Next time you look at a kid-every time you look at a kid-remember that.
Eli ground his teeth. He thought I was a child molester! A common pervert! The idea infuriated him. It was so wrong, so unjust.
"All I can tell you," he said, "is that he wasn't blond."
Strauss leaned close and lowered his voice even further. "That's not what you told the local guys. You said he was blond."
Eli leaned back from the onions on Strauss's breath. Everything he'd told the local detectives had been false. He'd sent them looking for a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bruiser with long, bleached-blond hair. He hadn't mentioned a word about wounding him.
"Exactly. Because we don't want him caught, do we. At least not by anyone outside the Circle. He might start babbling about the lamb. Fibers from the blanket might be linked to me or Adrian or the car."
"Speaking of cars, the witness said she saw him dump the bundle in a doorway and run back to a car."
Eli stiffened. The movement stabbed a spike of pain through his morphine curtain. "Tell me she didn't see the plates."
"She thought she did. Wrote down the number, but when we traced them we found they belonged to Vinny the Donut."
"Who's he?"
"Vincent Donate A Brooklyn wise guy."
"You mean mafia?" The thought terrified Eli.
"Don't worry. It wasn't him."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because Vinny doesn't leave witnesses. Our lady must've missed a number or two in the dark. I'm checking other possible combinations but it's not looking good."
"What about his phone? Someone called EMS about the lamb. It had to be him. Don't those switchboards have caller ID?"
"They do. And they got the number, which looked like a pretty good lead until we found out he used a Tracfone."
"What's that?"
"A pay-as-you-go cell phone. The only personal information you have to give when you sign up is the zip code you'll be calling from most frequently. The one he gave was for Times Square."
"Damn!"
"It's like the guy is some kind of ghost."
"I assure you he's not a ghost," Eli said. "Can you get his phone number from EMS?"
Strauss shrugged. "Sure. Why?"
"I don't know yet. I just want it. It's our only link to him." Eli shifted-very carefully-in the bed. "What about Adrian? What did he see?"
"Adrian's useless. He gets dizzy every time he makes a quick move and won't believe it's August. The last things he remembers were in July."
"Just as well, I suppose," Eli said. "That way he can't contradict my story."
"Never mind your story," Strauss said, rising and pacing at the foot of the bed. "Who is this guy? That's what I want to know! From what you tell me, he knows how to handle himself. Took out Adrian one-two-three. And it sounds like he came prepared, which means he must have been following you two."
"If he was following anyone, it must have been Adrian," Eli said. "He must have spotted Adrian while he was researching the lamb."
All that work, Eli thought. All wasted.
Adrian was such an excellent scout, always keeping an eye out for the next lamb. When the time for a new Ceremony neared, everyone in the Circle began watching the sidewalks. But Adrian was always on alert, even when a new Ceremony wouldn't be necessary for almost a full year, he kept watch. He'd been so excited with this latest find: the right age, adhering to a predictable schedule. The perfect lamb.
They'd watched and waited, and last night they knew the time had come: a rainy night near the new moon. The pickup had gone off perfectly, they'd been almost through Eli's door, and then...
"Doesn't matter who he was following," Strauss said. "He knows about you and Adrian now. Who else does he know about?"
Eli didn't want Strauss feeling too comfortable, so he said, "And if he's been watching this room, he probably knows about you as well."
Strauss stopped his pacing. "Shit! I thought it was safer than the phone."
"It is. You did the right thing. Let's face it, for all we know, he may already know about all twelve members of the Circle. But I have a bigger concern: Why didn't he turn us in? We know he had a phone. Adrian and I were helpless. All he had to do was simply step back and call 911."
"But he didn't," Strauss said, rubbing his neck with his jittery, skinny fingers. "He carried the kid away and then called. Could've been a hero, but he just faded away."
"Taking the knife with him," Eli added. "Why? It was covered with my prints, not his."
"But his blood was on it, along with yours."
A wave of cold rippled up Eli's spine. My blood... did he want a sample of my blood... for some ceremony of his own, perhaps?
Strauss tapped his fist on the footboard of Eli's bed. "None of this makes any sense. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless the guy knows about the Circle, and how connected we all are. I, for one, would not want to get on the wrong side of us."
True. The twelve men-Eli rather liked the idea of having twelve disciples-who made up the Circle were a diverse lot, with their hands on strings that ran to and from very high places-media, judicial, legislative, even the police. Only Eli lacked civic influence. But Eli had started the Circle, and he controlled the Ceremony.
"What about the lamb?" Eli said. "Will he be a problem?"
Strauss shook his head. "Remembers being grabbed, a smelly cloth pushed against his face, and that's it." He glanced toward the closed door and lowered his voice. "And speaking of lambs, do we have a backup?"
"Gregson has one under watch but he didn't think it was ready for pickup."