Damnable
CHAPTER 15
HATCHER HAD THE REMAINS OF A DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER on his plate and was finishing his second cup of coffee when the phone rang. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin as he looked at the number on the screen.
“Anything?”
Fred cleared his throat, and Hatcher knew the answer. “Well, ‘Pleasure Incarnate’ doesn’t exist, as far as the net is concerned. Not in Manhattan. I had to sift through a zillion uses of the phrase, but I did come across one reference, in some private chat room. It was archived less than twenty-four hours ago. Don’t ask me how I got access. From what they were talking about, it might be the same place.”
“Shed any light?”
“Only that it does seem to be some kind of brothel. But other than that, no. The poster was making an inquiry, got shut down pretty quickly by the moderator. I think I could track the hosts down, but it might take a while. From what I can tell, the moderator was local. Could probably find him in a day or two.”
“I’m not sure I have that much time. Anything else? How about the address?”
“Nothing. All I learned was that there seem to be more Steinbeck clubs in Manhattan than there are Steinbeck books. Sorry.”
Hatcher thanked him and broke the connection, dragged his hand down his face. He took the last sip from his coffee, fingered a French fry, then glanced down at the cell phone again and picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Why so many Steinbeck groups?”
“Huh?”
“You said there were more Steinbeck clubs than books. Why so many?”
“He was a major literary figure.”
“I know who he was.” Even though he could barely recall the two or three novels of his he’d rushed through in high school, one in college, Hatcher did remember his time learning Arabic in Monterey, California. Steinbeck country. “But I mean, why with this search? Why did his name come up?”
“East of Eden. It’s one of his most famous works.”
Through the ghost of his reflection in the window, Hatcher could see the activity on the busy Manhattan street. People walking everywhere he looked, engrossed in conversation, heading to various destinations, the nightlife of the most famous city in the world just getting started.
“Yeah, I know that much. But where did the story take place?”
“The story?”
“The book. Where was it set?”
A stretch of background noise filled the silence as he waited for Fred to answer. The clacking of a keyboard, the rustling and scraping of the phone brushing against something.
“I’m sorry,” Fred said. “It’s been a few years, so I had to check. According to this, California, mostly. A few scenes in New England.”
“Any in New York?”
“I don’t think so. Give me a moment.” More clacks at the keyboard. “No, not according to Wikipedia. Why?”
“Because I’m trying to find the connection.”
“What connection?”
“Between the book and the city.”
“Oh. Well, I can think of one.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Something I happened to come across during the search. He wrote part of it while living here”
“Here?” Hatcher shifted in his chair, sitting up. “In Manhattan? I thought Steinbeck lived in California?”
“He did, but he also lived a while right here in New York. In a brownstone on East Fifty-second Street.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have the actual address to that, would you?”
“Would that make you happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
“In that case, my friend, ecstasy is just a few keystrokes away.”
DETECTIVE WRIGHT SAT AT HER DESK AND STARED AT AN open file, not seeing any of it. She felt literally beside herself, as if part of her was standing next to her chair, wanting desperately to pace. How could she have been so stupid? To let him have played her like that, to have . . . given herself to him that way—a practical stranger. A man still serving a prison sentence, no less. When had she become so reckless? The reminder of her sexual encounter with Hatcher was too unsettling. She scrambled for a handle on other thoughts to replace it, something—anything—to block it out. Nothing seemed to stick.
What had come over her? She had never experienced any urge like that before, like a sudden, burning thirst that had to be quenched. The feeling had swelled inside her and just wouldn’t stop. It continued to build, pushing her beyond arousal, beyond desire. It had barely been relieved by her orgasms. Whatever it was, sex had never been quite that intense before. She’d come three times in those twenty or so minutes.
“Sergeant Wright?”
Wright looked up to see Reynolds standing in front of her desk. She sensed from his expression that he’d been standing there for several seconds. She broke eye contact, adjusting her sitting position as she reached for the nearest stack of papers.
“What is it, Reynolds?”
“Do you have a moment?”
“Why are you here at this hour? Don’t you have a life?”
Reynolds took a seat next to her desk. “Can you keep something between the two of us?”
“That depends on what it is.” She pretended to read the document in front of her. “You haven’t done anything wrong, have you? If so, I don’t want to know. I’m really not in the mood to play priest.”
“No. Not that I’m about to tell you, anyway.” He paused, smiling weakly. “This is about Jake Hatcher.”
She leaned back in her chair. God, why can’t I escape that man? “What about him?”
“You can’t tell the lieutenant though, okay?”
That didn’t sound good. Not good at all. But if he did have information about Hatcher, she wanted to know it. “Whatever. What is it?”
“I found a business card at the scene of the Warren murder. Maloney showed it to him.”
“To Hatcher?”
“Yes.”
“He showed Hatcher a card you found? So?”
“The card was for some kind of cabaret or something.”
Reynolds pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and set it down on the desk. She picked it up and unfolded it. It was a photocopy of two images. One of a business card, the other a rectangular close-up of a woman’s eyes. The second image was the exact shape and size of the card.
“This picture is the back of it,” Reynolds said, pointing. “It has some little riddle for an address. I think Maloney was trying to get him to go find it.”
“Why do you think that?”
Reynolds shrugged. “Just a vibe I got. Look, you can’t tell Maloney any of this.”
“Yeah, you already said that. So why are you telling me?”
“Because if Maloney is setting Hatcher up, I figured you’d want to know about it. Maybe try to stop it.”
“Oh, you did, huh?”
“Don’t you?”
There was something sly about his expression, something suggestive in the way he raised his eyebrows, in the innocent yet knowing tone of voice he used. This was a side of Reynolds Wright had never seen. She wasn’t certain what to make of it. She examined his face, started to sense things going on behind that expression she hadn’t suspected before. Perhaps there was more to him than she had realized.
She picked up the photocopy and gave it a light wave. “Okay, so tell me what place this is.”
Reynolds tilted his head from side to side, frowning. “Not quite sure beyond what I just said. Some kind of sexually oriented business, obviously. It must be an underground thing. Private club, maybe.”
“And you think Hatcher’s heading there?”
“I think that’s what Maloney wants, yes.”
“Why?”
Reynolds shrugged. “I don’t know. But something strange is going on with him. Like yesterday, I overheard him on his cell phone when he didn’t realize I was behind him. I think he was talking about Lucas Sherman. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
“And that’s strange because . . . ?”
“Because he sounded like he was giving someone assurances. Choosing his words carefully, if you know what I mean.”
“What, exactly, are you saying?”
“To be honest, I don’t quite know, but if you care about what happens to Hatcher, I think you may want to get a little proactive.”
“Proactive?” Wright leaned back into her seat. “As in proactively doing what?”
“I pulled the number off Maloney’s cell. I checked the times of his calls, found the one that matched the time I overheard that conversation. It’s registered to Heart and Soul Imports, Ltd.”
“Sounds like you’ve been busy finding ways to end your career.”
Reynolds put his hands on her desk, leaning forward. “Guess who the registered agent is?”
“You’re trying my patience, Reynolds.”
“Stephen Solomon.”
Wright said nothing. The name bounced around in her head as she tried to make sense of what she was being told, uncertain as to whether she should believe any of it. And if she were to, whether it really meant anything.
“And while there’s no public record of the limited partners,” Reynolds continued, “Heart and Soul Imports, Ltd., has a corporate general partner, with one director.”
“Are you waiting for a drum roll?”
“That director is Demetrius Valentine.”
Wright paused, considering what she’d just been told. “As in, the major philanthropist, high-society big-shot Demetrius Valentine?”
Reynolds nodded. “That’s not all. I just found out that our Long Island vic, the dearly departed Mr. Warren, did business with Heart and Soul Imports. Found a file on his computer.”
Wright said nothing. She stared past Reynolds, thinking.
“Now, don’t you want to find out?”
“Find out what?”
“Why Maloney is talking to a billionaire about Lucas Sherman? Why he’s calling a company linked to Sherman’s high-priced mouthpiece? And why he’s giving Hatcher information from a crime scene that may be connected and practically sending him out to investigate?”
“And how would you suggest I do all this finding out?”
“Well, I realize you’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have . . .” Reynolds reached into his pocket pulled out a stick of gum. He unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, chewing it for a few seconds before he finished his thought. “But I was thinking we try something really clever, like we pay a visit to Mr. Valentine and ask him.”
THE DANK SMELL OF THE EAST RIVER FILLED HATCHER’S nostrils as he stared across the water. Lights and reflections, shades of black and glistening surfaces. Shadowy stone and shimmering glass. New York was the only city he’d ever seen that looked like it was floating atop some gigantic barge. Several cities, actually, clustered together, connected by bridges. A metropolis rising out of the depths, water lapping at every edge.
He listened to the call ring, waiting for Fred to answer.
“Yes?”
“Unless you’re supposed to swim there,” Hatcher said, “we’re missing something.”
Two blocks east of the address on Fifty-first Street put him at the water’s edge. The breeze off the water whistled between the side of his head and the phone, making it difficult to hear.
Fred made a noise like he was frustrated. Hatcher sensed he made noises like that a lot. “In that case, I’m not sure what to do. Did the card say anything else?”
“No.”
“Anything at all?”
Hatcher pictured the print in his mind, though his thoughts kept slipping back to the photo. “Okay, one thing. It said to call someone named Samarra for an appointment.”
“Did you say Samarra? Are you sure?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Hold on. Something else I ran across.” Hatcher could make out a light rataplan of keystrokes. “Yes, here it is. Another author lived right near where Steinbeck did, a guy named John O’Hara. Wrote a book called Appointment in Samarra.”
“Wait a second.” Hatcher inclined his head, stared into the night sky. It was a blackish purple, devoid of stars. Rain was coming. “I know that story. Really short one. About some guy who saw Death and rode off to escape, not knowing he was running off to where Death had an appointment with him.”
“If you say so. I just remembered seeing it on some site when I pulled up Steinbeck’s address.”
“Where did this guy O’Hara live?”
“All I saw was that he was staying at the Pickwick Arms Hotel when he wrote it. It was a few doors down from where Steinbeck had lived.”
Hatcher pressed a hand to his face, shutting his eyes. That information confirmed the general location, but didn’t seem to shed any light on what he was missing. Five Blocks East of Eden. He had to think, had to tease the answer out.
“What’s the address for the Pickwick Arms?”
“Hold on . . . Hmm, it’s not the Pickwick Arms anymore. It’s now known as the Pod. Still a hotel, though.”
“Unusual name for a hotel. Where is it?”
“Yes. Apparently the rooms are small. Like pods. From what I’m seeing here, it looks like it’s supposed to be hip and trendy. And cheap. It’s west of Second Avenue, about a block.”
Hatcher looked out across the dark expanse of river. “But how do I get five blocks east of any of it?”
“I don’t know. Sorry.”
“Keep checking for me, if you would. I’m going to go back and take a look around.”
Hatcher headed back down Fifty-first toward the numbers for Steinbeck’s former residence. He crossed Second Avenue and found the hotel, thought about asking the desk clerk some questions, then realized it would be pointless. He ran the contents of the card over and over in his mind as he headed back toward the water again, passing Steinbeck’s old building once more.
Five Blocks East of Eden.
He closed his eyes, tried visualize the card in detail, focusing on the writing. For Directions Or An appointment Ask samarra. He recalled noticing how some of the words hadn’t been capitalized like the others, and now he knew why. Enemy networks in Afghanistan and Iraq had done similar things to call attention to key pieces of information. Misspellings, wrongs words, deliberately improper punctuation. He’d extracted enough information from captured combatants to know it was common.
The reference to Appointment in Samarra was an orienter, he was sure of it. It was meant to let the recipient know he was on the right track, to confirm the reference to East of Eden. If Fred’s info was correct, Steinbeck and O’Hara had lived on the very street Hatcher was walking. That wasn’t a coincidence.
Five Blocks East of Eden.
Crossing the East River put you in Brooklyn. The card said Manhattan. That was also an orienter. It was there to let the decrypter know to disregard that option and to stay on this side. Hatcher tried to recall what all the makeshift little field codes he’d come across had in common. The only thing he could think of was they always referred to something other than what they seemed to. Where was a good cryptoanalyst when you needed one?
Five Blocks East of Eden.
Hatcher continued walking east, studying the rows of buildings, brownstones, brick townhomes, cement slivers. Serried structures of varying heights with adjacent walls, an occasional restaurant or store at ground level. This was a residential block, lined with trees and fenced-off flower gardens in front of some of the dwellings. It was quiet and upscale. Very expensive real estate, even for Manhattan.
At the corner of First Avenue, Hatcher leaned against a pole and shut his eyes again. It had to be nearby; there were too many clues. He was still missing something.
Five Blocks.
Blocks of what? Stone? Didn’t make sense. Could blocks mean buildings? Maybe. He’d have to remember to go back and check the fifth building east. He was pretty sure it was a residence.
He jerked his eyes open and pushed off the pole. Five B? An address? He tossed the idea around. Maybe one of the residences? Or a slyly embedded clue, like someone named Lock in an apartment 5B? He would need to check every building east of the Steinbeck place, look for anything numbered 5B.
As he started to walk west, the idea lost some of its luster. Another thing these codes had in common, at least the ones he’d encountered, was that they pointed to things visible from a road or an alley. You never wanted someone knocking on the wrong person’s door and creating suspicion with his questions. Or leaving a trail for others to reconstruct.
Hatcher scanned the buildings in each direction. What was visible from the street? Not all that much. Façades, windows, signs on the businesses. He glanced at the restaurant on the corner. It had an Italian name written in script along the side of the green awning extending from it. A dry cleaner was next to it. A few floors up, a sign in the window announced it was the Center for Kabbalic Studies.
Several paces up the street, Hatcher stopped and turned around. Center for Kabbalic Studies. He pictured the words from the business card one more time, saw them start to take a shape consistent with their meaning. CKS.
“Oh, you clever, clever bastards,” he whispered.
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