Dead Birmingham (13 page)

“Yeah, maybe Scott is too,” Yim ventured with a raised eyebrow. I hope they are both there safe, it seemed to say.

“Scott. I certainly hope so,” Dextra said through clenched teeth. “I can't wait to see that son of a bitch.”

Something made Dextra glance down the street and her eyes immediately narrowed. “I think you got a tail, Yim baby.”

Following a block and a half away, the Foreigner saw Yim meet up with another girl and engage in an energetic exchange that lasted for a few seconds. He then, despite the distance, could quite clearly make out the fact that they both turned their faces toward him.

Fool, he chided himself. He had grown sloppy for only a second and the new girl had made him. He immediately started walking again, toward the two girls, and nonchalantly turned at the corner, but he knew they were probably alerted now.
 

He hugged the wall and started running, quickly, around the block. He had to get into another vantage point where he could still observe the girls without being seen.

Yim saw that the man she saw fit the description Bone had given her—a thin, pale man, in a black suit. “Oh my god maybe that's the store detective,” Yim said, her hand flying to her mouth.

Dextra gave a rough laugh. “Wake up, honey, that ain't no store detective. What did I just tell you? I bet anything that guy followed you all the way here. He can't be up to no good. We better get moving.”

* * *

The Foreigner waited two minutes under an awning on the other side of the block, and then walked slowly back through an alley that brought him up behind where he had last seen the two girls. They were gone, of course.

He had lost them somehow. They had probably disappeared down the alley across from the one in which he stood. If they had started down the long streets in either direction, he probably would still be able to see them. The office buildings on these streets were all closed, so the alley it was. He looked across the street. Rearing up before him was a majestic looking building of yellow marble. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was missing a few windows. A giant, sweeping capital “C” adorned its topmost floor.

The Cabana Hotel, its faded marquee proclaimed. An abandoned hotel. Interesting, he mused. His street urchin's sense told him that was his likely destination.

So perhaps his prey had ducked down this alley to a back way in.

When he looked down the alley, however, it came to a dead end. But his was a meticulous nature, and he retraced his steps. The dark alley had only two turns, both adjoining back alleys, one to the left, one to the right, in a block of mostly locked, deserted or run-down buildings, none of them housing businesses open at night.

Both alleys were very dark. Where had the girls gone? He went down the one to the left, which opened back onto 23rd street, much further up a busy street with several bars. That was too far for them to have reached in the time it had taken him to round the block.

No, they had gone the other way, they must have. Toward the old hotel.

The Foreigner went back down to the alley that had been on the right. He walked to the apparent dead end. There, almost at the end, was a small alcove, barely wide enough for a person, covered by a piece of plywood that had been made into a makeshift door. The wood had been painted the same color as the concrete wall. He carefully slipped his fingers beneath the edge and pulled against it. It opened soundlessly, the bottom clearing the pavement by an eighth of an inch. In the darkness, he could make out a narrow stairwell that led down. An ancient service entrance, cleverly disguised. So; he had been right, after all.

 

Chapter 26

 

No one cares, you know. You live your life, you make your own mess, and pick up after yourself. No two lives have exactly the same beginning and end, and no one has any idea where it's all going to take them. The messes that get left, we clean up. We are janitors.
 

Broom stared through the windshield. A storm was brewing, and in the distance he could see forks of lightning firing down from the brooding blue clouds that rumbled low in the distance. We are janitors, cleaning up the morning debris that the night leaves behind: murdered children, murdered lovers, wives with black eyes, all those lives destroyed. We clean up a little of the mess, and then it happens all over again. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

Broom had been a cop for twenty years, and he had seen all the usual kinds of mayhem. But this case troubled him. There was a monster in his city, this little southern town that had grown too big for itself, this city that had known bombings and race riots, blues men and gangsters and heroes, too. For all her past troubles, though, from somewhere out in the greater darkness a new kind of demon had come. The thunder boomed loud. Broom's car window was open slightly and he smelled the coming rain.

This guy, this killer, is the real thing.
 

Broom knew this instinctively, with the kind of near supernatural insight that the detective acquires, must acquire, to do his job well. The real thing, yes. But what
was
that thing? A hit man? Broom had seen one or two of those. Forget the movies. They were generally the lowest specimens of criminal, ordered to their wet work by bosses who knew they were weak and would do as they were told. A few were psychopaths who enjoyed killing. A very few were professionals with method. Generally mob connected. But the careful methodical torture of these kids was beyond anything Broom had ever seen. This man had come from . . . somewhere else. A different paradigm than that of rat-race crime.
 

The big detective sat for a while in thought, until something clicked vaguely in the recesses of his mind. “A long shot,” he mumbled to himself, “but sometimes they win races.”

He picked up his cell phone and pushed a number on his speed dial.

“McMahon.”

“Broom here. How's our boy, Shakes?”

“Right as rain. He's got a private room upstairs.”

“Great. Hey, Mack, I've got an idea.”

“Let's have it. I'm fresh out.”

“Get on the horn to the FBI. Tell them about this Foreigner character. See if we can find mention of victims with the same M.O. I think this guy has been at his work a while. I'm sure he's left others behind him. Find out about Canada, maybe, and Mexico too, if you can. Maybe we can see what he's up to, and head him off.”

“What are you doing while I'm chasing phone phantoms?” Mack asked.

“Sorry, Mack, but you know that's how it's done.”

“So my fifteen minutes of real crime fighting are up? Anyway, you didn't say where you were going.”

Some guys had a wry smile. Broom had a wry frown. No one was there but himself, but he frowned his wry frown. “I'm going to see if I can find an antiques dealer.”

There was a loud crack of thunder as he hung up. And the rain came pouring down.

* * *

“FBI, VICAP. Agent Marsh.” A young woman's voice, sharp and professional. Mack liked her already.

“Agent Marsh, This is Detective McMahon, Birmingham Homicide Squad. I'm requesting information on any murders that bear similarities to killings that have taken place here in Birmingham.”

“Have you placed the details on NCIC?”

“Yes, but my partner thought if you guys had maybe looked over our report so far . . . ”

“I see. You'll need to e-mail me your details, detective, and we'll be glad to get you whatever information we can.”

“Do you guys keep track of murders in Mexico or Canada?”

“You'll need to talk to Interpol for that, Detective McMahon. But they have an excellent database, and are very efficient.”

“Can't say as I've ever had to deal with them, but my partner is also my boss, and he says find out.”

“Boss for a partner? I feel sorry for you.”
 

She gave him a very long phone number that connected him with a French operator, who came on the line after a pause.

“
Est-ce que je peux vous aider
?”

“Uh . . . what?” Mack asked after a pregnant pause.

The operator switched to accented English when she realized Mack had no idea what she was saying. “Can I help you?”

“I'm trying to reach Interpol.”

“Yes sir, you have. I am the Interpol operator.”

“Uh, yes. Well, I'm a detective in the U.S.A., and I need some information on some crimes that have been committed—”

“Hold, please.”

Mack bit his lip in irritation, but he almost instantly heard a ring.

“Inspector Cohen.” A deep French accented voice greeted him, resonant and courteous.

“Detective McMahon, Birmingham Police. Inspector, I've been referred to you by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm investigating a series of homicides in our city, and we are looking for crimes of a similar nature that may have occurred in other cities. I've spoken with someone at VICAP who referred me to you, as this is your area of expertise.”

“Homicides, eh?”

“I'm afraid so. It seems the perpetrator might possibly have some sort of international rap sheet . . . his alias is ‘The Foreigner.' We have no other name on him at this time. I hope your organization can give us some help.”

“Certainly, Detective, I will do all that I can to assist you. Please send whatever particulars you have on your case to me via e-mail. My secretary, Suzanne, will send you any information we come up with overnight.”

“Thanks. I'll get right on that.”

Inspector Cohen relayed an e-mail address, and McMahon turned to his computer and started typing. Between mulling over the printouts and typing e-mails, he was beginning to feel like Broom's secretary. He didn't think the French guy really gave a damn; he'd probably never hear from Interpol on the matter. What the heck was Interpol, anyway? Some kind of French outfit? McMahon bet himself the Irish Police were ten times more efficient. He hoped all of this paper shuffling would end up doing some real good.

 

Chapter 27

 

The Foreigner made his way through the darkness at the foot of the stairs, and felt cool air touch his face from the left. He had a pocket flashlight, but he did not dare use it, lest he alert his prey. Instead, he walked slowly, silently, with one hand out, fingertips extended. His fingers found the wall, and he let them trail along it until they found an open space. He cautiously edged into it. A tiny sliver of light showed in the distance, and he cautiously made his way toward it.

It was a door, and stairs going back up. Where was the light originating, he wondered. He pushed gently against the door. It opened easily, and he stepped through. He was onstage. He smiled in the eerie blue light that lay on the other side. The light was dim, but enough to have shown him the outline of the door.

Skylights let shafts of pale light filter into the vacant theater, showing its faded and dilapidated seats, its torn and molding curtains. The feeling was macabre, and he wondered for a second if he had killed enough people to fill those seats, and if there was a hell, how appropriate such a command performance might be. You should have studied the violin, he told himself. Then you could at least keep them amused.

He walked across the creaking boards to the stairs off stage right. He walked up the isle and out into the foyer. There was a box office, and through the windows he could see the street. But the lobby also had stairs that led into the old hotel that was adjacent to the structure. He looked at the words that were painted on the outside of the building, reversed to him. The Cabana Hotel. Intelligent, these impetuous children. They had selected the most obvious place in the city in which to hide. He admired their bravado.

He walked up the steps to the lobby level. In its day, this hotel must have been very swank, he mused. It reminded him of some of the old hotels of Europe, in which he had stayed. But enough, he chided himself. Listen. Stretch every nerve. This is a vast building, and they may be hiding anywhere. Where would I choose, were I young and bold? I would climb until I found the best suite. But not only that, I would roam this vast corpse until I had plumbed her every secret, learned every crevice, looted every treasure. So then, must I.

I will climb to the top and start back down. And I will find them. He thought of the Asian girl. Such beauty. Yes, my little love, soon we shall have time. And we shall get to know each other so very, very well.

* * *

The shop was closed up when Broom got there. No sign of Malvagio or his nephew. He walked up to the window. A small sign with an adjustable clock face indicated that the owner was due to return at 1:15. It was well past 3:00.
 

Rain slid down the panes. Inside there was a clutter of items.
 

“That's a pretty long lunch,” Broom muttered. He had located Malvagio's home address. Then, to himself,
I'll just go visit him there
.
That way, we can talk where the man is most comfortable; no need to cut short his lunch break.