Part 9 (1/2)
”You know who I am, Inspector. What you saw ... that's who I am. The rest is just window dressing.”
Donovan nodded. He didn't need to know any more. ”How can I contact you?”
The Ghost shook his head. ”No need. I'll be back in a few hours. Wait here.”
”Very well.” Donovan watched the Ghost turn and leave, and then set about fixing himself some eggs.
After he'd eaten and dressed, Donovan searched out the holotube unit in the Ghost's apartment. He'd decided to call Mullins. The sergeant deserved to know where he was, or at least what had happened to him. He'd arranged for Mullins to call for him that morning, fearing the worst, and now, he realized, the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d was probably panicking, running about the place trying to deal with the dead mobster he'd found on his boss's carpet. And besides, there was always the slim chance that Mullins had managed to get a lead on Reece. Donovan knew that was probably desperation talking.
The transmitter buzzed; a moment later, the blue light flickered to life and an image resolved in the display cavity. It was Richards, the precinct's administrator.
Donovan cleared his throat. ”Richards. Donovan.”
The man sounded immediately relieved. ”Inspector Donovan? We've been trying to reach you all morning.”
”Ah, right. Yes. I ran into a few complications last night. Can you put me through to Mullins?”
The administrator gave an exaggerated shrug. ”That's just it, sir. Sergeant Mullins isn't here.”
”What do you mean, Mullins isn't there?”
The other man sounded unsure. ”There's been another murder, sir. Like the others. Sergeant Mullins is attending the scene.”
Donovan ran his hand through his hair, flinched at the stab of pain in his shoulder. Another murder? He stared at the flickering blue image. ”Right, man. Give me the address.”
”Yes, sir. It's uptown. Two-two-six Eighty-eighth, between Second and Third. Home of a Mr. Williamson, a banker.”
Donovan nodded. ”Right, I'll get over there straight away. If Mullins calls, tell him I'll be there within the next thirty minutes.”
”Yes, sir.”
Donovan flicked the switch, ending the transmission. The blue light blinked out, the picture fading from view. Another murder. The Roman had been busy.
He stood, looking for a sc.r.a.p of paper on which to scrawl a note for the Ghost. Unable to find anything suitable, he threw his hands up in despair and decided to leave anyway. He'd take the Ghost's advice, to a point; he'd return here later to meet the vigilante. Clearly, Donovan's own apartment was unsafe. But he couldn't sit around and do nothing, not when there was a potential lead on the Roman, a fresh corpse, and a worried sergeant, out of his depth and unsure what had become of his superior officer. He couldn't sit and hide himself away, knowing that, no matter how much pain he was in.
The Ghost had left a key dangling from the lock. Donovan seized it in his fist and set out. He'd be back soon enough. And together he and the Ghost could consider how they were going to find Reece.
The taxi hissed up to the sidewalk, slotting in behind the row of police vehicles that crowded the street like a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. Donovan had considered driving-his car was still parked outside the Ghost's apartment, after all-but he couldn't face it yet. The pain in his shoulder was still too intense, and he knew the seats would still be sticky with congealed blood.
He climbed out of the cab and paid the driver. Then, crossing the sidewalk, he mounted the steps that led up to the front of the large house, the home of Mr. Williamson, the dead banker. He rapped on the door. A uniformed man cracked the lock and held it open, peering out at him suspiciously through a slight gap between the door and the jamb. When he realized it was Donovan his demeanor changed entirely and he opened the door wider, beckoning the inspector in over the threshold. ”Morning, sir.”
Donovan bowed his head in acknowledgement. ”Morning.”
”They're in the back, sir.”
Donovan made his way into the bowels of the house. It was s.p.a.cious and richly furnished; plush, deep carpets, expensive-looking works of art plastered over every wall, furniture in the modern style. The banker had clearly carved out quite a career for himself.
Donovan followed the sound of voices to the dining room. There he saw Mullins and three other men standing around the oval dining table, regarding the naked white corpse of the banker. The man had been obese-grossly obese-and balding, with a stark, pale complexion. But now his face was blue, bloated, the blood vessels broken to form a cracked network of lines across his face. His thick, stubby fingers were spread out upon the table, his hands palm down on the gla.s.sy surface, adorned with innumerable gold and platinum rings. Ban knotes-huge sheaves of yellowed banknotes-had been stuffed into his mouth, choking him, suffocating him with their papery promise.
His body had been positioned over the table, stripped naked and posed so that his behind was jutting rudely into the air, his feet spread apart, his tree-trunk-like legs on either side of a carved wooden dining chair. More banknotes had been forced brutally into his a.s.shole.
Bizarrely, the room smelled of freshly cut flowers. Donovan gave a polite cough. Mullins looked up. ”Inspector! We've been trying to reach you.”
”I heard. I ran into a spot of trouble.” He looked at the sergeant expectantly.
Mullins looked concerned. ”Is that a new suit, sir?”
Donovan waved a hand. No mention of the dead goon in his apartment? ”Not now, Mullins. Is this ... ?”
”Yes, sir.”
”What about the coins?” Donovan looked at the man's eyes. They were bulging from the sockets like gla.s.sy orbs. He looked away again.
”They're here, sir. One under each palm. It's definitely the work of the Roman.”
Donovan nodded. If it was Reece, he'd been busy. He glanced back at the corpse, trying to hide his disgust. The banknotes were too much of a coincidence: Reece was sending him a message. He grimaced.
Mullins crossed the room, coming to stand beside him in the doorway. Together, the two men regarded the bloated corpse in all its macabre glory. ”Do we have any idea what time?” Donovan said wearily.
Mullins shrugged. ”Late.” He was looking sideways at the inspector, as though sizing him up, as though he felt he needed to ask Donovan if everything was all right.
Donovan nodded. ”I'm alright, Mullins.” He paused, considering his next words. He didn't want to make matters worse by spilling the whole thing to his sergeant. Didn't want to admit he was working with the Ghost, a wanted vigilante. It would complicate things. And he didn't want Mullins getting wrapped up in Reece's games, either. ”Did you stop off at my apartment this morning?”
Mullins nodded. ”Yes. I knocked but you didn't answer, so I a.s.sumed you'd changed your mind and made your own way to the office. When I got there you weren't around. Then the call came in and we headed up here without waiting.”
Donovan nodded. ”I had a run-in with a few of the Roman's men. Roughed me up a bit.”
The portly man wiped a hand across his brow. He looked concerned, had clearly noticed the way Donovan was carrying himself to ease the discomfort in his wounded shoulder. ”What happened, sir?”
Donovan sighed. ”Later. It can wait.” He scratched around in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, realized with dismay that this was not his jacket pocket as his fingers closed on empty s.p.a.ce. ”Mullins, have you got a cigarette?”
”No, sir.”
”G.o.ddammit!”
The sergeant looked shaken. He quickly changed the subject. ”Reports from the neighbors suggest the incident took place between two and three this morning.”
Distracted, Donovan stared at the dead man's milky-white back. Two or three a.m. Well, it could have been Reece. That was long after he and the mobster had parted company.
”Do you need anything, sir?” Mullins' voice cut into his reverie.
”Just a cigarette, Mullins. If you can find me a cigarette.” He swallowed. ”Then I need to catch the b.a.s.t.a.r.d responsible for this.”
The two men stood together in silence for a moment. Then, suddenly, Donovan turned to face the other man. ”Mullins. Any luck finding that link you were talking about, the thing that connects the victims?”
Mullins looked solemn. ”No, sir, not yet. But I know it's there. I will find it, given time.”
Donovan sighed. ”Time, Mullins, is the one thing we don't have.” He stared at the floor for a few moments, a ponderous expression on his face. Then he reached into his pocket, retrieved a small folded envelope, and turned it over in his fingers. ”You know, there is something you can do for me, Sergeant.”
”Yes, sir?”