Myth Man (30 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

P
RESTO TRIED TO OPEN his eyes, but pain prohibited his brain from sending the appropriate signals. He envisioned his head with an array of needles sticking out of it. Acupuncture amok, which made him look like Pinhead from the
Hellraiser
movies. Gingerly, a hand went to his head, and it felt normal, despite the piercing sensations.

Parched, he tried to summon saliva, but the well was dry. Now, he had to open an eye. He always went to bed with a beverage on his nightstand. Through one slit of an eye, he saw no drink.

His eye closed and then reopened, much wider, albeit for the moment, the other was tethered shut. Something was wrong. Or was he in the midst of some alcohol-prescribed dream? The pain he felt was all too real, so he focused.

There was a nightstand and an alarm clock, but his was different. This was a cheap stock digital model. Presto’s was one that was adapted for use with his iPod.

His eyes swept past the nightstand. The walls had Tuscan-colored wallpaper with scattered pedestrian flower prints in black and gold frames. The windows had curtains not blinds, besides the fact that proportions were all wrong. His windows were split. This was one large frame. And there were rugs?

Presto’s second eye now opened. This was not his room, and it wasn’t familiar. His mind said hotel based on the sparse and generic furnishings. Was he so drunk that he had checked into a hotel?

Then Presto used other senses besides sight. He smelled something fragrant, something feminine. Then he used his sixth sense and detected a presence besides him. He had a hunch but could not believe it. He decided to slowly roll his head over, eyes closed, in sleeplike fashion. After a few minutes, he’d peak.

As Presto built the courage to shift, he suddenly realized that other than his socks, he was naked. He grew more nervous. After a long minute, he slowly turned his head. After a longer minute, he opened one eye enough to catch a hazy view.

Thankfully, she was lying on her side with her back to him, but he could tell by the shape and color of her hair that it was definitely Agent Lorraine Ridgewood.

He clamped his eye shut and delved into his short-term memory. He recalled the incident at the bar and that Bailey and Donavan had continued their binge, so that left him alone with Ridgewood. That’s where things went cloudy. Then an image flashed across his mind. He was kissing a woman, passionately. It was Ridgewood. This was her place; she had been living out of the hotel since the assignment.

Still, the details were fuzzy. There was only one thing that mattered. Why was he naked, and what, if anything, happened? Despite the pain in his head, he had a self-deprecating moment in his repose. What if this was his first time, and he would never remember the moment?

He thought about gently putting his hand on her shoulder but decided to wait it out. Ridgewood softly breathed as she laid there still. Twenty minutes later, she stirred and rolled over toward him.

Presto half-opened his eyes when they made contact. Drooping, bloodshot eyes stared back. “Do you feel as lousy as I do?” she groaned.

His eyes glazed over, and he groaned in agreement. “Profoundly.” He said no more and hoped she’d talk and fill in the blanks.

It worked.

Ridgewood nestled against him. Under the covers, he felt one of her breasts pressed against him. Their heads rested on their pillows, faces only inches apart. His pulse raced.

“Amazing love potion, alcohol is, huh? We work like two civilized adults for months, and then in one drunken fury, we hop into bed together.”

Presto decided to be honest. “I’m sorry, Lorraine. I don’t really remember much of anything,” he said sheepishly.

In jest, her face became reproachful. “I’m insulted.” The coquettish smile reappeared. “Kidding. It’s okay. We were both pretty lit. And for the record, we didn’t have sex. Close, but no cigar, so to speak.”

Presto’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“We made a good go at. Don’t worry. I was quite satisfied. You do have some appetite,” she said as her eyes twinkled. To Presto’s delight, she continued without pause. “But you were a bit too drunk, and well, you know—you couldn’t get hard enough.” She spoke softly without even the hint of an insult.

Presto feebly mumbled “sorry.” His first legitimate chance to break his virginity, and he blows it, with a gorgeous woman, nonetheless. Yet, it was still, by far, his most intimate encounter. Although he thought of Camille, he was thrilled to be naked in bed with Ridgewood. If anything, he would have expected remorse, but she was as sweet as ever.

“Dom, it’s okay. Hey, we had fun. Consenting adults, although for our sakes, I suggest we not let Donavan get wind of it. He’s simply too immature, and I’d rather not deal with his shtick.”

Presto, who would have agreed to anything except fasting, quickly replied, “Deal.”

Then Ridgewood leaned on Presto and rolled on top of him. The blanket fell revealing her fully. Presto’s eyes bulged.

“Dominick,” she said strongly. “We may have been drunk, but I harbor no regrets. I’ve thought about you before,” she said and tussled his bird nest hair. “Let me say this, and then we go back to business as usual. When we’re through with the case, if you want to meet again, call me.”

Presto was thunderstruck. He figured this to be her biggest mistake since she married her philandering husband. Was it really possible that a guy like him could be with a woman as stunning as Lorraine Ridgewood? It certainly seemed so, as he gazed up at her smiling face. They were now sober, and here she was naked atop him.

“You’ll hear from me,” Presto managed. Then with more eagerness, “That’s a promise.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

“I
NEVER THOUGHT YOU WERE like every other man, but you’re no different,” Cleo Presto scolded her couch-prone son from the kitchen. “You got a taste, and now you’re philandering around town.

Philandering
?
Huh?

Cleo was full of patriotic color this morning. She had a bright red blouse. Her slacks were crisp blue that receded to white flats. Her makeup had been vigorously applied. Presto noticed that over the past month, she’d been dressing with more flair. At first, he wondered if she’d met someone. Then something else occurred to him, but he dared not ask.

“It’s not like that, Ma,” Presto mumbled. His mind, body, and soul called for a therapeutic rest. First, though, he had to wait and listen as his mother cooked him as well as an early afternoon breakfast. “We drank too much, and …” He left the implication unfinished.

She left the stove and leered. “So did you?” she prodded.

Presto was carefree about his weight, but his virginity was another manner. “Ma,” he bristled. “Why are you so nosy?”

Cleo Presto laughed, but then her face grew serious. “Because I’m your mother, and I care. Remember, we’re partners.”

“Ma, if I were a true gentleman, would I kiss and tell?”

“You should never boast, but to confide in a true friend is different,” she said persuasively.

“Is that eggs I smell or bullshit?” Presto jazzed.

“I smell something Belgian,” she said sniffing the air with a glint in her eyes. Her nose found Presto. “It’s you. You’re waffling.”

Presto straightened to a sitting position. “Well, for what it’s worth mom, we fooled around a bit but were too drunk and fell asleep.”

As per the norm, Cleo inquired further. “And what was the reaction in the morning?”

“We laughed a bit and left open the possibility of dating when,” he emphasized, “the case is over.”

She mulled that over and replied, “So where does that leave you with Camille?”

“To be honest, Ma, I’d be lucky to have either woman. They are both pretty and nice, although each different in her own way. Ridgewood is the professional, aspiring woman. She’s sweet but fierce and determined. Camille is a free spirit. She’s interesting and brings unique traits to the table for a female. Saying all that, I’d be grateful to have a chance with either woman, but if I had to pick one, I’d say Camille.”

Cleo smiled. “Well reasoned. You are a good boy. I never doubted you, even if I sounded indignant. I want what’s best for you.” She returned to the oven, and the sounds of a spatula, sizzling grease, butter being spread on toast, and clattering of silverware were heard.

Presto was nervous, but he had questions of his own. He asked now, while her face was not visible. “Whatever you ask of me, I tell you. I want you to be honest with me. You lost some weight, and your over concern in my love life has me wondering.”

He paused for her to speak. Nothing. “Is there any update of your medical situation you’re not telling me?”
There, I said it
, thought Presto.

She strode back to the living room, hands on her hips. “Thanks for the concern. I’m thinner because I’ve been active again. I see the doctors when they tell me. I have had a few chemotherapy sessions, which accounts some for my appearance. They’re testing, making sure nothing’s spread. Thus far, things look good, knock on wood,” she said and banged the wall a few times.

Presto used every arsenal in the detective playbook as she recapped her prognosis. He watched her eyes, hands, posture, and the way she spoke. On most accounts she scored well. Her initial defiance seemed exaggerated, but from there, her mannerisms suggested she was truthful. He hoped she was right.

“Thanks, Mom. I’m so thrilled that I could do ten pushups right now,” boasted Presto as he puffed his chest.

“Ha,” she replied. “Don’t get mushy. Instead, get off you’re
tushy
and eat. Breakfast will be on the table in a minute.”

When he was done eating, Presto retired to his room for some rest and recuperation. On the way, he stopped to see Aphrodite. He gasped. The mouse he’d fed to his snake the day prior had been regurgitated on the calcite sand; the vermin’s body stretched and slick from the snake’s digestive juices.

He looked to Aphrodite, who was curled in the corner where the heating pad warmed the bottom of the tank. At first he thought she was dead, but then he saw the tongue flicker before he was reassured.

Presto caught a rancid whiff as he removed the top. He removed the mouse with one hand and used the other to hold his nose. He flushed it down to the toilet. He wondered if Aphrodite was sick.

He thought of Camille. She would know what to do. That was what made her unique. Then he laughed for a second. His mind heard Camille say:
The snake has long been associated with health and medicine. Most symbols associated with medicine display either one or two snakes entwined in a staff. The single serpent staff is for the Greek god of medicine, Asklepios
.
The double serpent staff is Hermes, who was later associated with alchemy
.
Alchemists were often called Hermeticists. So maybe this is a sign. The snake has absorbed the ills and metaphorically and metaphysically cured your mom
.

Presto laughed at his mind’s commentary.

That was a good line of new age bullshit, Camille, but I hope you’re right
.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

“I
’D LIKE TO SELECT my own team to guard the 770,” Bailey told Danko, as his two agents and Presto met inside Danko’s office.

Danko looked at Bailey, confused.

“The 770 is the term
Cahbad Lubavitch
use for their headquarters. It’s on 770 Eastern Parkway. Crown Heights,” informed Bailey.

Danko, who still looked like a ghost of the man he was two months ago, was happy to appease. “Sure. Any reason? It seems the consensus here is that the murders are over, at least for now.”

Bailey, who was dressed more like a banker than an FBI agent, explained. “While we may all agree that nothing will happen, the Chabad personally asked for federal assistance

“Fine by me,” Danko replied. “Hopefully either Fallow is caught, or the murders stop for long enough that we aren’t held hostage on every religious holiday. Seems like there’s one every day,” he said exasperated.

Danko picked up some notes off his desk, strained his eyes, and read, “In fact, today is,” he peered closer, “Mawlid an-Nabi. It’s some Islamic holiday, and officers are stationed at every city mosque.” He shrugged, as if the futility of it all rested on his shoulders.

Bailey stood next to Donavan, leaving Presto and Ridgewood seated side by side. They looked at each other, and Presto’s heart raced. He tried to calm his anxiety.

Bailey had his right arm across his chest with his hand pressed over the upper part of his left arm. Presto wondered if that punch hurt more in the morning.

Bailey said, “After Passover, we’ll pull off the case. We’ll still assist, but from home. Just maybe that Sykes character was the killer. I doubt it, but who knows. If not, we’ll still look for any signs of Fallow, dead or alive.”

Ridgewood slapped her hand against her thigh. “It’s not right. I feel like we lost; there’s no closure, almost like a relationship that ends without a why.”

Presto wanted to console her frustration. He felt the same way, and it ate at him too, but he knew better. Empathy might arouse suspicion.

Surprisingly, Donavan seconded her gripe. “I actually agree with Ridgewood. I don’t like this one bit, and I’ll tell you, Chief,” he said turning to Bailey, “I think it’s a mistake to pull Loraine and me off the case just yet. First, we’ve bonded very closely, and I’d hate to break the camaraderie.”

He paused to steal a glance at Ridgewood, who shook her head in dismay. “I agree with, Dom. I think Fallow is the real Myth Man, but I disagree that he’s just disappeared forever. He wrote the papers; he had this whole agenda. He may have gotten away, but what did he accomplish?” Donavan looked at everyone and then spat a raspberry.

“He got zip. Religion continues. Hate crimes have dropped. He has no organized following. That pisses a guy like Myth Man off. He may pop up somewhere else, but it could only be a city with the size and diversity of New York. He’ll be back, trust me.”

Presto agreed to a point. Fallow had the taste of blood. His murders were brutal, symbolic, and well planned. He would be back, but in time. Fallow knew they were on to him. He’s too smart to continue in the near term.

Bailey shurugged. “That may be, but how long do we wait? I’m going back to Washington a day after the 770 gig. There are other matters we must attend to. Anyway, I have more than enough confidence in my friend Dominick Presto.”

A half hour later, Bailey and Pretso sat at a Greek diner that was Spartan in décor and overdue for remodeling, but the service was good, and the food surprisingly better. Bailey had asked for time alone with Presto, leaving an unhappy Ridgewood with Donavan.

“I wanted you alone,” explained Bailey, “partially because what I’m about to tell you, I shouldn’t. Since the mayor insists on a police presence for every religious holiday, I want to assemble my own team. I’m not concerned with Myth Man. I’m more worried about a multitude of other possibilities. Can you assemble a small group of officers that you know and trust?”

Presto was not blessed with many close associates on the force. He figured he’d ask Danko. Despite their differences, Presto trusted him. He also knew he could count on Jack Burton. “I’ll rustle up a few bodies.”

“That’s good. We’ll have you on the perimeter. I’ll be inside.” He stopped to cast a suspicious look around the diner that was mostly filled with old men who eyed a video lotto game. Presto guessed that since he heard no screams of joy, no one hit the $10 million advertised prize.

Bailey worked at his spinach omelet and then said, “Here’s the plan. With cooperation from Israeli intelligence, the crate has arrived. Under a small escort, an armored truck will deliver the goods to the 770 Eastern Parkway parking facility.” He stopped to think. “A small team of rabbinical scholars will inspect the find. Unless something dramatic happens, we should be dismissed thereafter.” He stopped again, and then his regal face smiled with adolescent shine.

“At least I get to spend a few days with you before I head back. I just hope I hear what’s inside that crate before it’s all over. I’ve become friendly with one of the rabbis, and he said he would need my assistance.” His eyes sparkled like a child asked if he wants a new toy.

Presto wondered too. So did others. “I read bids were submitted to the U.S. government.”

“Allegedly,” deadpanned Bailey, “but true. Serious offers from serious people. Trust me when I say, $100 million was considered lowball.”

Presto believed him. When word leaked of the bids and names did not surface, the press began to speculate. Was it Bill Gates, Rupert Murdoch, Madonna, a Saudi royal prince, or any of the many other names they bandied about? Presto did not ask, and Bailey did not delve.

Then Bailey did say something that caught Presto by surprise.

“The rich and famous are one thing, but there are nefarious types out there who think the crate contains something powerful, and it belongs to the U.S. government, or should I say shadow government, rather than the Jewish people. That’s what’s kept me up at night.”

When they finished eating, Bailey said, “That was a rough night at the bar. I can barely remember it. I’m still recovering,” he said rubbing his shoulder. “I need some rest. Get a team together. I’ll call you in tomorrow.”

*****

Presto ran some errands. He rented two movies, Both comedies. He steered clear of heavy drama. Next he stopped at the bookstore. In the
New York Times
Science Section, he read about an interesting book about future technology and, specifically, quantum computers. He was shocked to find the book readily available.

Next was the pet store. He wanted to try and feed Aphrodite again. Hopefully, she regurgitated the last one for good reason, and she was hungry and healthy.

He called home.

“Mom, don’t cook anything. I’m off early. I got a few movies, and I’m stopping at Sal’s for filet mignon.” He shook his head and blinked twice. “No, Mom. I did not invite Lorraine over.”

Sal’s was a typical long wait. There was always a crowd and always conversation. The staff was overly friendly. Presto preferred life at a slow pace and never minded the wait, while he surveyed all the fine meats, salads, breads, and pastries. He left with a fine piece of meat and insight on why the New York Yankees were
gonna win it all
from Sal’s son Rico

He detoured from the butcher to a street food vendor. Gus, the guy behind the grill, was a top-notch cook and marinated his food overnight. But today, Presto longed for a sloppy gyro. With all the walking, he’d worked up his appetite.

Last stop on the spree was a florist. He wanted to buy his mother flowers; just because, he told himself, but of course there were reasons. Sure it was for love, but more so, he willed the woman who dealt with diabetes as if it was a mild case of the sniffles to overcome cancer.