“Across from the ossuary, the same individual had created a shrine to Santa Muerte: a very beautiful, very ornate shrine. If Homero Garcia came from Juarez, and was a devotee of Santa Muerte, then it’s possible that he and the restorer of the ossuary were one and the same. After all, a man capable of intricate work with silver might well be capable of similar work with other materials, including bone.”
He sat back in his chair. Once again, his fascination with the details was clear, just as it had been when he spoke about the preacher Faulkner and his book of skin and bones.
Perhaps Garcia had come to New York of his own volition, and without the assistance of others, but I doubted it. Someone had discovered his talents, found him the warehouse in Williamsburg, and given him a space in which to work. He had been brought north for his skill, out of reach of the Federales, and perhaps also away from those for whom he sourced, and disposed of, women. I thought again of the winged figure constructed from pieces of birds and animals and men. I remembered the empty crates, the discarded shards of bone that lay upon the worktable like the remnants of a craftsman’s labors. Whatever Garcia had been commissioned to create, his work was nearing completion when I killed him.
I looked at Neddo, but he was lost in the contemplation of Santa Muerte.
And even after all that he had told me, I wondered what it was that he was keeping from me.
My cell phone rang as I was nearing the hotel. It was Louis. He gave me the number of a pay phone and told me to call him back in turn from a land line. I called from the street, using my AT amp;T calling card to reach the number. I could hear traffic in the background, and people singing on the street.
“What have you got?” I said.
“The pimp running Sereta was called Octavio. He went to ground after she was killed, but we found his nephew, and through him we found Octavio. We hurt him. A lot. He told us he was going back to Mexico, to Juarez, where he came from. Hey, you still there?”
I had almost dropped the phone. This was the second mention of Juarez in less than an hour. I began joining the dots. Garcia may have known of Octavio from Juarez. Sereta fled New York and entered Octavio’s ambit. When Alice was found, she probably told them what she knew of her friend’s whereabouts. Garcia put out some feelers, and Octavio got back to him. Then two men were dispatched to find Sereta and retrieve what was in her possession.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll explain when you get back. Where’s Octavio now?”
“He’s dead.”
I took a deep breath but said nothing.
“Octavio had a contact in New York,” Louis continued. “He was to call him if anyone came asking about Sereta. It’s a lawyer. His name is Sekula.”
In Scarborough, Rachel sat on the edge of our bed, cradling Sam, who had at last fallen asleep. There was a patrol car outside the house, and the Scarborough cops had boarded up the shattered window. Rachel’s mother was beside her daughter, her hands clasped between her thighs.
“Call him, Rachel,” said Joan.
Rachel shook her head, but she was not responding to her mother.
“It can’t go on,” said Joan. “It just can’t go on like this.”
But Rachel just held her daughter close and did not reply.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Walter Cole got back to me the next morning. I was still asleep when he called. I had faxed him the list of the numbers called from Eddie Tager’s cell phone and asked him to see what he could do with them. If he had no luck, there were others I could turn to, this time outside the law. I just thought Walter could get the information more quickly than I could.
“You know that tampering with mail is a federal crime?” he said.
“I didn’t tamper. I mistakenly assumed that it was addressed to me.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me. Anyone can make a mistake. I have to tell you, though: I’m running out of favors I can call in. I think this is it.”
“You’ve done enough, and more. Don’t sweat it.”
“You want me to fax this to you?”
“Later. For now, just read me the names. Take them from around 1 A.M. on the date I marked. That’s about the time Alice was picked up on the streets.” Someone must have contacted Tager to tell him to bail Alice, and I was hoping that he had called that person back once he was done.
He read me the list of names, but I didn’t recognize any of them. Most of them were men. Two were women.
“Give me the women’s names again.”
“Gale Friedman and Hope Zahn.”
“The second one, was that a business or personal number?”
“It’s a cell. The bills go to a box number on the Upper West Side, registered with a private company named Robson Realty. Robson was part of the Ambassade group, the same one that was looking after the apartment development in Williamsburg. Seems like Tager called her twice: once at 4:04 A.M., and once at 4:35 A.M. There were no more calls from his cell until the next afternoon, and her number doesn’t show up again.”
Hope Zahn. I pictured Sekula in his pristine anteroom, asking his coldly beautiful secretary not to disturb him-No calls, please, Hope-while he sized me up. Sekula’s days were numbered.
“Is that any help?” asked Walter.
“You just confirmed something for me. Can you fax that info to my room?”
I had a personal fax machine on the desk in the corner. I gave him the number again.
“I also checked the cell phone number that G-Mack gave us,” said Walter. “The phone belonged to a Point junkie named Lucius Cope. Cope vanished three weeks ago.”
“If they had his phone, then he’s dead.”
“So, what now?”
“I have to go home. After that, it all depends.”
“On what?”
“The kindness of strangers, I guess. Or maybe kindness isn’t the right word…”
I headed out for coffee and called Sekula’s office along the way. A woman answered the phone, but I could tell that it wasn’t Sekula’s usual secretary. This girl was so chirpy she belonged in an aviary.
“Hello, could I speak to Hope Zahn, please?”
“Uh, I’m afraid she’s out of the office for a few days. Could I take a message?”
“How about Mr. Sekula?”
“He’s also unavailable.”
“When do you expect them back?”
“I’m sorry,” said the secretary, “but may I ask who’s calling?”
“Tell Hope that Eddie Tager called. It’s in connection with Alice Temple.”
At the very least, if Zahn or Sekula checked back with the office, it would give them something to think about.
“Does she have your number?”
“She’d like to think so,” I said, then thanked her for her time and hung up.
Sandy Crane was a little concerned about her husband, which meant that the week was turning into a real collection of firsts for her: the first promise of money in a while; the first mutual joy she and her husband had experienced since Larry had finally succumbed to senescence; and now concern for her husband’s well-being, albeit tinged by a considerable degree of self-interest. He hadn’t yet returned from his visit to his old war buddy, but he occasionally spent nights away from home, so it wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary. Usually, though, his absences coincided with horse races in Florida, and rarely now did he embark upon a journey with the sense of purpose he had shown the day before. Sandy knew that her husband liked to gamble. It worried her some, but so long as he kept it within reason, she wasn’t going to raise a fuss. If she started complaining about his spending, then he might in turn decide to curb her excesses, and Sandy had few enough luxuries in her life as things stood.
Sandy wouldn’t have put it past the old fart to try to cut her out of the deal entirely, though her fears were allayed slightly by the knowledge that Larry needed her. He was aged and weak, and he had no friends. Even if that stuck-up sonofabitch Hall agreed to play ball, Larry would need her by his side to make sure that he wasn’t taken for a ride. She was still a little surprised that Larry hadn’t called the night before, but he was like that. Perhaps he’d found a bar where he could bitch and moan for the night or, if Hall was willing to cooperate, where he could get himself a mild drunk on to celebrate. Even now, he was probably sleeping it off in a motel room between trips to the john to empty his bladder. Larry would be back, one way or another.