Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

Manny sighed. "Not entirely. And that's exactly why I'm telling you to stay away from Travis Heaton. He's under house arrest, and I'm sure there are federal marshals keeping an eye on his apartment. If they see you waltzing into his building, a fleet of cruisers will be waiting for you when you come out. I'll talk to him."

This suggestion was met with silence. Finally, Sam spoke again. "Okay, maybe you're right."

Manny smiled. There was a sentence you'd seldom hear any man utter.

"Listen, this is what I want you to find out. Whose idea was it that they go to Club Epoch? Why that place, that night? Did Travis know they were going to be meeting anyone?"

"I want to know those things, too, Sam. And believe me, I intend to find out."

"And what about this Paco kid-are you going to talk to him?" Sam demanded.

Manny switched the phone to her other ear and reached out to stroke Mycroft. He yipped and scooted away from her hand. "Mikey, what's-"

"Manny! What about Paco?"

She wasn't eager to answer this question. The truth was, Paco Sandoval was proving quite elusive and it was really pissing her off. And worrying her. He was hiding behind his diplomatic immunity and letting his friend take the fall. If Paco was just an innocent dupe, as Travis claimed to be, then why wouldn't he at least cooperate in his friend's defense? She suspected that this mysterious caller who'd contacted Boo Hravek was somehow connected to Paco. But how could she prove it if she couldn't even talk to the kid? His family's apartment near the UN was a veritable fortress; the Monet Academy had treated her like a damn pedophile when she tried to reach Paco there. Still, she didn't want Sam to panic. She could handle this.

"Look, Sam, Travis went to school today, and he'll talk to Paco and let him know we need to meet with him. I'll work it out."

"You'd better. Call me as soon as you're done with those kids."

"Fine. Expect to hear from me by five."

As soon as she'd put the phone down, Manny scooped up Mycroft to examine the paw he was licking. The dog held perfectly still as her fingers searched gently. Then he shuddered and yelped when Manny found the swollen wound hidden in his curls. He'd been bitten by that damn terrier! The nip he'd given Kimo had been in self-defense.

"Oh, Mikey, I've got to get you to the vet. You're wounded. And unjustly accused, too." Jake peered at slides through a microscope set up on a small side table in his office. While he'd been obsessed with the Vampire, a multitude of work on other cases had piled up. Stacks of case folders and unproofed autopsy reports teetered on his desk. The medical degrees and awards hanging on his walls seemed to mock him as he worked.

As much as he tried to focus on wrapping up the details of these other cases, thoughts of the Vampire continued to derail his concentration.

A light tap at the door made him look up. Vito Pasquarelli stood on the threshold of his office, looking as gaunt and nervous as Jake had ever seen him.

"What's the matter?"

Vito stepped into the office, shut the door, and leaned on it. "I had my meeting with the FBI this morning." His eyes were half-closed as he spoke. "They want to take over the case."

"That's good news, isn't it?" Jake came out from behind his desk and waved Pasquarelli into a chair beside him. "This Vampire thing has put you in the hot seat. Let them have it."

Pasquarelli shook his head. "The mayor's fighting it. Ever since the FBI fouled up that near-miss subway bombing in Brooklyn and let the conspirators slip away, the mayor never misses a chance to hang the feds out to dry. He says no one does a better job of protecting New Yorkers than the NYPD."

Jake grinned. "His confidence in you is touching."

"Yeah, yeah, tell me about it. He's just grandstanding for reelection, and jabbing our congressmen for not getting New York more federal antiterrorism money. That all looks great on the news, but I'm the one who's gotta figure out how to solve this Vampire thing, and I don't see how I'm going to do it if the FBI gets its knickers in a twist and refuses to help me."

"Why do they want the case? What do they know that you don't?"

"They know whose fingerprint was on that coffee mug, but they don't know how it got there. And neither do I."

"It didn't get there when the person was drinking from the mug?"

Vito leaned back and stared at the warped and grimy ceiling of Jake's office. "Well, maybe. But he sure as hell wasn't having a drink with Ms. Hogaarth."

"Why not? Whose print is it?"

The detective gave up on trying to divine the future by reading the stains in the acoustic tile and met Jake's eye. He spoke the words as distinctly as if he were calling the person forward to accept an award.

"The former president of the United States-Richard Milhous Nixon."

Manny stood on the front stoop of the five-story walk-up on West Ninety-seventh Street and pressed the button next to the faded nameplate reading HEATON. When nothing happened in response, she pressed again.

She'd managed to squeeze in a visit to Mycroft's new vet on the way to Travis's apartment, but the detour made her fifteen minutes late for her client. Dr. Costello had been so accommodating, examining Mycroft right away, bandaging him up, and even placing a call to Little Paws to argue, successfully, for Mycroft's readmission. Efficient, kind, and handsome, too. But Dr. Frederic Costello was married, to his receptionist, and she had Jake, so enough of that little daydream.

Manny leaned on the button again and tried shouting into the scratched and dirty speaker. "Mrs. Heaton? It's me, Manny Manfreda."

A window on the second floor opened and a woman in a green-and-orange housecoat leaned out. "Bell don't work. You gotta call." The window slammed down.

Manny sighed and dug out her cell phone. But as she dialed, the buzzer opening the outer door sounded and she was admitted to the building. In the small tiled vestibule, Manny was assaulted by the mingled scents of industrial-strength roach spray, cooked cabbage, and ammonia. The stairs ahead were steep and narrow. Manny looked down ruefully at her Chanel wedges and began the long climb to the fourth floor.

On the second floor, the sounds of Spanish-language holy-roller radio blared. "?Dios, Dios!?Yo te amo Dios!" over and over, barely muffled by the scratched brown metal door to apartment 2A. This was not the kind of two-bedroom Manhattan apartment most Monet Academy students were familiar with. She wondered if Travis ever brought his friends home. She wondered what he felt when he visited them in their luxury co-ops and town houses.

Manny shifted her purse to her other shoulder and kept climbing, pausing to catch her breath at the next landing, but she was motivated to press on by the intense cooking smells on the third floor. With a stitch in her side, she reached apartment 4A, positioning herself directly in front of the peephole before she knocked, so Mrs. Heaton could see her clearly.

She had barely grazed the door with her knuckles when it flew open. "Thanks for coming. I'm sorry I'm still in my work clothes. I just got in a few minutes ago." Maureen Heaton stepped back to let Manny in. The door opened directly into the kitchen, a room with cracked greenish linoleum and a window that looked out onto a brick wall. Manny hadn't seen such an ancient gas stove since she'd last visited her great-aunt Cecilia.

"Can I get you a drink?" Mrs. Heaton offered. "Lemonade? Tea?"

"Just a glass of water will be fine, thanks." Manny tried not to pant as she spoke.

Mrs. Heaton gave her the water and led her down a long, narrow hall that ran past two closed doors and ended in a small, bright room overlooking Ninety-seventh Street. "Have a seat," Mrs. Heaton directed. "Travis should be home any minute now."