Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

Manny twisted around to look him in the eye. "Oh, fine. You're forgiven. You'd think a man with such an exalted vocabulary would be familiar with the words I'm sorry, but apparently not."

"He didn't know them when he was a kid, either, Manny," Sam chimed in. "I don't know how he managed to get such a high score on his SATs."

"I hope you two are enjoying yourselves." Jake massaged Manny's shoulders.

"I am." She leaned back and smiled. "Now, tell us what's happening with your case. Is this woman who was murdered in midtown really a victim of the Vampire?"

Jake's elation at being back in Manny's good graces evaporated as soon as she mentioned the Vampire. He dropped his hands from her shoulders and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. The MO is totally different. No sign that he pushed into the apartment-she appears to have let him in. And then the torture-why has he suddenly turned so violent? I don't think it's a copycat. The only link is the puncture on her arm, where blood was obviously drawn, and the use of ether."

"What was the time of death?"

"Sometime between noon and five yesterday."

"Middle of the afternoon and no one saw or heard anything?" "The police spent all day reviewing the security tapes. There's only one person who entered the building during that time frame who can't be accounted for. A woman wearing oversize sunglasses and a baseball cap, carrying a big purse. The concierge remembers that she spoke with an accent of some kind. He said he announced her to apartment 50E. The lady in 50E says she approved the visitor because she was expecting her masseuse. But then no one showed at her door. She was just getting ready to call down when the concierge buzzed her again, and the masseuse arrived. She thought it was a little screwy at the time, but she didn't complain."

"So this mystery woman is obviously your Vampire! Can they get a good description of her by studying the tape?"

Jake shook his head. "Hat, glasses, and coat cover every identifiable feature. She could be any medium-height woman-or man, for that matter-in the city. This is not a woman's crime. A woman doesn't sexually torture an old lady. It just doesn't add up."

"So what's your next step?"

Sam and Manny were looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of a hat. He knew they wouldn't be impressed with what he had to offer.

"Research. I plan to spend tomorrow calling colleagues here and abroad and trolling through databases and medical journal articles until I figure out just what caused that unique burn pattern. If I know what the Vampire used, maybe I can figure out why he-or she-used it."

Sam parked Manny's Porsche Cabriolet at the curb, pulling in between a jacked-up Trans Am and an ancient Honda Accord. His drive down Wilkens Street, on the west side of Kearny, New Jersey, had been monitored by two slavering pit bulls behind a chain-link fence and several gimlet-eyed statues of the Virgin Mary in front-yard shrines. Glancing at the small yellow house fortified with wrought-iron window grates overlooking his parking spot, he noticed a curtain flick back into place. Alert, alert! Stranger spotted on the street!

As Manny had predicted, the IDs produced by the remaining young men who had been with Travis and Paco on the night of the bombing bore the addresses of nonexistent buildings or unknown streets in the metropolitan area. The fact that these guys had been carrying fake IDs raised no suspicions among the police. No sir, they had their bomber, Travis Andrew Heaton, and damned if they were going to let suspicious behavior by the other people present that night get in the way of their case. So, no need to track them down, uh-uh.

That was Sam's job. The previous night, after Jake and Manny had slunk off to the bedroom to kiss and make up, he had headed across the river to hang out at Club Epoch. Despite being fifteen years older than most of the people on the dance floor, Sam had managed to insinuate himself in a group of regulars. It had taken him until nearly four o'clock in the morning to tease out the identity and possible location of one Benjamin "Boo" Hravek, thought to reside in Kearny, known to hang out at Big Mike's Gateway Inn in that fair city.

After returning to Jake's brownstone and encountering Manny and Jake at the breakfast table, both dressed in business suits and sporting disapproving stares, Sam had crawled into bed for a few hours' sleep, and then pulled into Kearny in time to have a late lunch at the Gateway Inn.

He strolled down the block, heading for a windowless building covered in gray asphalt shingles. Nowhere did the name Big Mike's or Gateway Inn appear. If you had to ask, you weren't welcome. But his search of liquor licenses held in Kearny had revealed that the license granted for 440 Wilkens Street was held by Lawrence M. Egli, DBA the Gateway Inn.

As he drew closer, Sam revised his approach. "Lookin' for Boo Hravek, an old buddy of mine" would never fly here. In Kearny, everyone knew one another from the moment of conception-old friends didn't appear out of the woodwork.

He thought about the girl who had told him last night, after five Cosmos, where to find Boo. Today, if she was able to remember their conversation, she would be regretting it. Telling strangers about the neighborhood boys was not the done thing, not even when the stranger was nicer than you were used to.

Sam took a second to get the appropriate expression fixed on his face, then opened the door to the Gateway Inn. Momentarily blinded by the sudden switch from the bright sunshine of the sidewalk to the dim interior illuminated only by the glow of the TV above the bar, Sam paused on the threshold.

"Shut the fuckin' door," a disembodied voice rang out.

Fresh air was clearly not a welcome commodity here; it diluted the rarefied scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Smoking in New Jersey bars was now illegal, but Sam figured the law must be routinely flouted at the Gateway. Either that or so many cigarettes had been smoked here that it was going to take decades for the place to air out. Sam made his way toward the bar, feeling the soles of his shoes sticking to the residue of last night's spilled beer.

The bartender, a guy in his fifties in a short-sleeved white shirt, made fleeting eye contact. Sam interpreted that as the Kearny equivalent of "Hi, what can I get you?"

"Give me a beer and the fried fish plate." He didn't need a menu to know that the deep-fat fryer was the only method of cooking available in the Gateway kitchen. But Sam had eaten stewed monkey in Bangkok and grilled locusts in Ghana-he enjoyed going native.

The bartender plonked Sam's beer down and returned to polishing glasses at the far end of the bar. The only other customer, the guy who had shouted for the door to be closed, sat a few stools away, resolutely studying the pattern of foam in his glass. Sam also sat in silence. Eventually, the bartender approached with silverware and the steaming plate of fish and fries.

"Lookin' for someone to do a little work for me." Sam directed his comments to the food, not the man carrying it. "Guy in the city said Boo Hravek might be right for the job. Know where I can find him?"

The bartender stared at him for a long moment without responding. Then he moved away, methodically wiping the already-clean bar as he went. When he got halfway down its length, he said, "What kind of work?"

"The kind of work he's good at."

"Who'd you say sent you?"

"I didn't."

The man nursing his beer suddenly roused himself. "Boo don't work for just anyone."

"I know." Sam dunked his french fry in catsup and held it suspended over his plate. "That's why I want him." He watched the two men exchange a glance. Apparently, he'd given a good response. He pressed his luck a little further. "There's good money in it." He didn't want to name a price, since he didn't know what Boo customarily received for doing whatever dirty deeds he specialized in.