Abracadaver (Esther Diamond Novel) (11 page)

And a man who was already stressed and frustrated due to his volatile relationship with a woman and various complications arising on the job would be even easier to manipulate that way, I guessed.

“So you think the demon is inflicting these—okay, let’s say
pranks
—on Lopez to generate the negative emotions that it feeds off.” I asked, “Will it get full and stop, the way we stop eating and drinking?”

“No, the appetite of Evil is voracious and always feeds on its own hunger. The entity will escalate its efforts as it keeps growing stronger,” Max said gravely. “This is a very typical pattern when demonic influence is at work.”

“But growing stronger for what?” I wondered. “What’s the thing’s goal?”

“That is what we must learn before it becomes powerful enough to achieve its aim,” he said. “We must also ascertain Detective Quinn’s precise role in this. For example, I am concerned that the intent in today’s prank may be manifold.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but this often happened when Max spoke, so I just said, “Go on.”

“In addition to increasing Detective Lopez’s frustration—and adding confusion to his state of mind, which the demonic also finds stimulating . . . This prank also had the effect of separating Detective Lopez from his two companions.”

“You think he’s in danger now?” I asked in alarm. “He’s being deliberately isolated?”

“No, since our hypothesis is that the entity is attached to Detective Quinn,” said Max, “I am more concerned about the safety of Mr. Nolan, who may now be alone with him somewhere.”

“Oh, I see. Lopez isn’t under attack,” I said. “You think he was gotten out of the way?”

“He is a trained police officer, he has weapons and a strong protective instinct, and he is also a very observant, decisive individual . . .” Max nodded slowly. “I believe that manipulating Detective Lopez into leaving its presence, as has just happened, would be the demon’s strategy if it senses a desirable opportunity in its path.”

“An opportunity for what?”

“For whatever it’s trying to achieve.”

“Back where we started,” I said in frustration. “All right, I’m going to call Nolan right now, find out where he is, and make sure he’s okay.”

To my relief, Nolan answered his phone on the third ring.

“How’s it going, Mike?” Subtle as a freight train, I reminded him, “This ride-along you’re doing with my friends was all my idea, so I wanted to find out if it’s working out well.”

“Oh, yeah, great!” Nolan sounded enthusiastic—which was still an unfamiliar tone, coming from him. He also sounded like he was eating while he was talking to me. “I’m getting loads of material. Really good stuff. I should do this more often.”

I hoped he didn’t say that around Lopez.

“I’m glad to hear it. You’ve hit it off with the guys, then?”

“Well, that Lopez guy is a wet blanket.” Yes, Nolan was definitely chewing. I tried to ignore it. “I mean, sure, he’s a smart guy, and he really knows his stuff. And you can tell he’s someone you’d be glad to have at your back if you were in a tight spot. But he’s got no sense of humor, he only talks if you ask him a direct question, and he’s really got a poker up his ass.”

Those last few bits didn’t sound like Lopez at all, and I figured it was an indication of how much he had loathed Nolan’s company. I felt a little bad about that. A
little.

“Quinn is an okay guy, though.” As Nolan continued speaking, I realized I’d never before heard him talk this much about anything other than himself. This ride-along was having a remarkable effect. Maybe the demonic entity was bringing out the best in him? “He’s kind of morose, but a lot more relaxed than Lopez.”

“Morose?” I repeated, thinking of what Max had said about negative emotions feeding demonic appetite. Using my pretense that this was acting research, I said, “Let’s explore that. Is it something you can use for Jimmy Conway?”

“Maybe, but Quinn is more of a sad sap than Jimmy is.”

Well, sure. Quinn had to deal with his own problems, after all, whereas Jimmy weekly got to vent his spleen on suspects, hookers, dealers, and other cops.

Max whispered to me, “Who is morose?”

I mouthed Quinn’s name, and I could see from Max’s expression that he wanted me to keep pursuing it. Still treating it like an acting exercise—we spend a lot of time observing human behavior so that we can portray it well—I asked, “Why is he morose? What’s the trigger?”

“A woman,” said Nolan, eating again. “What else?”

“His second divorce,” I guessed, recalling what Lopez had said.

“I think he really thought she was the one, you know? She walked out a year ago, and he’s still not over it.” He slurped a drink, then added, “And she took him to the cleaner’s in the divorce, too. He’ll be paying for
that
marriage for a few years, that’s for sure.” Nolan added darkly, “I can relate.”

“Does he seem angry about it?” I asked.

“Sure, a little. Hey, maybe that’s what I can use. He channels it into this kind of brash, edgy attitude that’s got some potential.”

I put my hand over the receiver as I explained quickly to Max what Nolan was telling me.

“Has he told you what he was doing before he joined the OCCB?” I asked Nolan.

“Worked in some god-awful part of the Bronx where drugs and gangs have overrun the place. Sounds like he investigated a lot of ugly homicides there. I’m glad you reminded me. I don’t want to do it while I’m eating—”

“Oh, you’re eating? I never would have guessed.”

“—but I want to get some details about that. I should take notes.”

“That’s a good idea. It would be great stuff for us to discuss.” I did not look forward to hearing about a bunch of grisly murders, but it might be necessary.

“This guy’s been around. There’s a lot of texture there.”

Assuming Quinn would have objected to this discussion before now if he were present, I asked where he was.

“On the phone, getting a ride for us. The weather’s rotten out there. Oh, and he was going to check in with his partner, too—wherever the hell Lopez is. He’s been gone a while. Anyhow, Quinn’s phone stopped working about an hour ago, so he’s using the restaurant’s.”

I covered the receiver to tell Max that Quinn’s phone had died. Yet another electronic device. More disrupted communication. The pranks were escalating.

Max told me to ask if the detective seemed like a religious man.

“Lapsed Catholic, from the sound of it,” replied Nolan.

Which is what Lopez had said about him, too. I had to hand it to the actor. He’d gotten a lot out of the guy in only a few hours. I wondered if Quinn suspected anything, or it he was just flattered by the interest that a TV star was showing in him.

While Nolan had been talking, Max had been scribbling on a notepad in his elegant, archaic handwriting. Now he pushed his notes over to me. I saw he’d made a list of questions he wanted me to ask Nolan.

I read them, then gave Max an uncertain look. He nodded encouragingly. So I sighed and dived in.

“Say, Mike, have you guys entered any churches or houses of worship today?”

“No. Well, not yet.”

“Does Quinn appear to avoid them?”

“Huh?” Nolan sounded puzzled. “No. We just haven’t had any reason to—”

“Does he exhibit any ritual behaviors?”

“He chews on a pen sometimes. He says it became a habit when he quit smoking.”

Probably not the sort of ritual Max meant.

“Have you observed him encountering any dogs or other animals?”

“No. Not many people are out walking their pets in this weather. Why?”

“Has he appeared violent or menacing at any point today?” I asked as casually as possible.

“Uh, no . . . but that’s something I’d like to see. It could give me some background i—”

“Have you noticed any odd smells or odors in his presence?”

“What kind of odors?” Nolan sounded perplexed.

I made a gesture to Max indicating I needed more information, then I read what he quickly jotted down. “Excrement? Rotting flesh?”

“What?”

“Sulfur? Decay? Putrescence?”

“No.”
Nolan added, “Jesus, Esther, I’m
eating.
”

I moved on to the next question. “Have you observed any peculiar changes in his eyes?”

“Whoa, does Quinn have a drug problem or something? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“I’m just worried about him,” I said, which was not entirely untrue. “He, um, doesn’t look after himself.”

“Yeah, that’s obvious. Have you seen his posture? It’s no wonder he talks about aches and pains. I should make him an appointment with my chiropractor.”

“He talks about aches and pains?” I prodded, meeting Max’s gaze.

“Yeah—in fact, about an hour ago, he kind of doubled over for a few seconds when he got this stabbing pain in his stomach. I think something’s wrong with his appendix. But, you know, that could be referred pain from his heart. My cardiac doctor tells me—”

I held the phone away from my ear as Nolan prattled on, and I relayed this information to Max, who looked gratified.

“Recurrent, unexplained pain like that is another common sign of demonic presence,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The evidence is mounting to the inescapable conclusion that Detective Quinn is oppressed.”

“Oppressed?” When Max started to explain, I said, “Wait, not now. Is there anything else you want me to ask Nolan?”

“Find out where they are now,” Max instructed. “This is an opportunity for us to confront Quinn without Detective Lopez being present.” He didn’t need to add that Lopez would be an impediment to such a confrontation.

When I held the phone to my ear again, Nolan was still talking about cardiac stuff. I interrupted him. “You said Quinn is on the phone calling for a ride? Where are you—”

“Whoops, not anymore,” said Nolan. “Quinn is waving at me to get up and come to the register. I guess we’re paying and leaving.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“A funeral in Chinatown.”

“What?” I blurted.

“Hell of a night for it. Quinn suggested I might want to skip it and go home, but it’s for that tong boss who flew off a balcony last week. The guy Goldman is claiming killed himself because of Lopez,” he said with relish. “As if I’d miss
this.
”

“You’re going to Joe Ning’s wake?” I asked shrilly.

Max’s eyes widened and our gazes met.

Chen’s Funeral Home. Quinn. Another corpse in a coffin.

“This is gonna be great,” Nolan enthused. “Loads of texture, a tong boss’s wake, authentic underworld characters . . .
Jackpot.
”

“Mike, listen to me very carefully,” I said. “You mustn’t let—”

“Gotta go, Esther.”

I sighed heavily and set down my phone in frustration when I realized he’d ended the call.

“
That’s
what it wants,” Max said, rising to his feet. “And that’s why it manipulated Detective Lopez into leaving his companions. The entity suspected he would interfere if he were present.”

I rose, too, and followed him to the coat hooks by the door. He started donning his heavy outerwear (all new stuff, since his things had been ruined in the Yees’ fire last week). I grabbed my coat and started putting it on, too, since I gathered we were going to Chen’s now.

“Max, I still don’t understand. What does the entity want?”

“It wants a cadaver!”

“A corpse?” I said with a frown. “A dead body?”

“Yes!” He turned to his familiar. “Arise, Nelli! The game is afoot!”

N
elli had been very reluctant to wake up and leave the dry warmth of the bookstore for the cold, cruel, wet elements of this miserable Manhattan night.

After standing outside for twenty minutes in the pouring snow (the best description of the frigid, wet, semisolid stuff falling steadily down on us), I wished I had sided with her instead of with Max.

Fine, let the demon have a dead body. What do I care?

In our eagerness to get to Chen’s Funeral Home, we had not considered the difficulty of getting a cab on a night like this, let alone the challenge of finding a taxi that would agree to carry Nelli. After a few minutes of exposure to the elements had drenched the dog and her winter vest and coated her big paws with slushy filth, we accepted the impossibility of our foolish quest, and I phoned Max’s pet transport service. Although Max was a regular customer and known for tipping well, they were having a busy night, so we wound up waiting much longer than expected—which was why we hadn’t returned to the store to wait inside. As a result, we were shivering and very damp by the time a sleek black SUV collected us from a curb in Greenwich Village.

After giving the driver the address of the funeral home, I closed the plastic partition so the driver wouldn’t overhear our conversation. Sitting in a cold, dripping huddle, I asked Max, “Why does the entity want a dead body?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to ask it.”

I tried to picture chatting about this with a demonic being that reanimated corpses. It didn’t seem like something I wanted to do.

“How did it know Lopez would interfere?” I asked.

“By virtue of being attached to Quinn, it has been in his company for weeks. Detective Lopez is not aware of the entity, but it is aware of him and has learned things about him.”

That made me shiver again. Then I thought of something else.

“Max, when Susan was running around Doyers Street with a gun in her hand, at one point she turned that thing on me. I think she really intended to pull the trigger. Lopez was there, and he saw. I could hear him shouting to me. And then projectile flames suddenly burst out of the mouth of John’s lion costume and shot across the street. It scared Susan and startled her into the dropping the gun.” Then Lucky had tackled her, followed by some cops. “Those flames probably saved my life, Max.”

He nodded, having listened with intent interest. “And there was, of course, no evident explanation for what had happened.”

“Everyone who examined the lion costume afterward was perplexed. Including Lopez.”

“He had reacted instinctively, unconsciously calling on power he doesn’t realize he possesses,” Max mused, “at a moment of supreme stress when he saw a madwoman pointing a loaded gun at you.”

“Quinn was there,” I said.

“Ah.” Max realized where I was going with this. “That means the entity was present and witnessed the incident, too. And you’re wondering . . .”

“Does it know about Lopez? Does it know what we know? Well, I mean . . . what we strongly suspect.”

Although I couldn’t have explained why, it struck me as threatening for a mysterious demonic entity to realize there was something special about Lopez—in a mystical sense, I mean.

“That probably depends,” said Max, “on what the entity can sense.” He thought it over for a few moments. “But I am skeptical that a single isolated event would be revelatory. As I understand it, there were many people on the street at the time, and quite a few of them were emotional, alarmed, and shouting. There was also a mystical familiar present.”

“Yes.” I looked over my shoulder, to where Nelli lay in the back of the vehicle, making a halfhearted attempt to clean her front paws. She had been at the scene, of course—it was where she had subsequently tried to attack Quinn.

“So it would be unlikely, I think, for the entity to pinpoint the catalyst of those flames, even if it recognized a frisson of mystical power at that moment.” Max added, “If it is any comfort to you, I think the demon’s effort to get your young man out of the way for this evening indicates, if anything, that it prefers to avoid confrontation with him.”

“It is a comfort. But I don’t think he’d go to the wake, anyhow,” I said. “Given the garbage that Alan Goldman is spreading in the media, showing up at Ning’s visitation would just bring more pointless trouble down on Lopez’s head.”

On the phone, Lopez had indicated that he intended to go back to his squad and stay there for a while. So it seemed to me that he and his partner, who was unknown to the media or the Ning family, had agreed that if there was anything more to be learned about Ning’s controversial death at the wake, it would be up to Quinn to observe it.

“Oh, the demon probably doesn’t understand any of that,” said Max. “They’re clever, but they’re not human, not part of society, and often didn’t originate in this dimension. The demon is no more likely to understand why Detective Lopez will avoid this wake than you would be likely to understand the intricacies of court etiquette if you were suddenly transported to medieval Japan. So it took steps to distract him.”

I nodded and sat pensively for a few moments.

The SUV entered Chinatown, maintaining a steady pace and a smooth ride on the increasingly treacherous streets. We’d be at the funeral home within minutes, so I asked what our plan was.

“I propose that we find Detective Quinn and remove him from the premises with all due haste. I believe the Chens’ reputation in the community is such that it can probably withstand an alarming incident, but I assume they would nonetheless much rather that Uncle Six does
not
become reanimated at his own wake.”

“That’s what we’re expecting then?” I asked, trying to get my head around this. “Quinn and his demon arrive at the wake and . . . what? There’s a little mystical mojo and—abracadaver!—another corpse reanimates?”

“Yes, I believe that is the likely scenario.” He paused before adding, “More or less.”

“I still don’t understand why. It is doing this just to generate fear? Is this another escalation of pranks designed to feed its appetite for negative emotion?”

“I suspect there is more to it than that,” Max said. “This entity attached itself to a police officer, someone who presumably comes into contact with many fresh corpses . . . Well,
many
compared to the average citizen, that is.”

“Nolan said that Quinn investigated a lot of murders in his previous post,” I recalled. “And he’s bound to investigate homicides as an OCCB detective.” It wasn’t as if people in organized crime shied away from committing murder, after all.

“I hypothesize that the entity chose Quinn for that reason. The detective could be counted on to bring the demon into contact with the dead,” said Max. “The
recently
dead.”

“So that it can animate them.”

“Yes.” He frowned in thought. “Rather than being another prank, I suspect that reanimation may be the entity’s goal—or a significant step on the path to its goal.”

“Well, the Chens are not going to like
that.
” I doubted the Ning family would like it, either. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “Quinn must already be there. I’ll tell Lucky what’s going on.”

Max nodded his approval. Unfortunately, though, Lucky didn’t answer his phone. I left a message, then put my phone back into my pocket. I didn’t even bother trying John, who would also be there. The Chens didn’t carry cell phones when hosting a wake. Nathan felt it was disrespectful to the departed and insensitive to the bereaved to chat on a phone while standing five feet away from a newly filled casket.

As was Max’s custom, he tipped the driver generously when we reached our destination. I didn’t know if the Magnum Collegium paid well or if he had simply invested wisely over the centuries, but Max seemed to have a healthy income. (I just knew that the bookstore couldn’t be the source of his funds, since it did very modest business.)

Uncle Six was such a big man that the wake was heavily attended despite the daunting weather and slippery streets. The funeral home was so crowded I wondered if it had been a bad idea to bring our pony-sized dog. But then I remembered there was probably a demonic entity hovering somewhere on the premises, and I was glad to have her at my side—though she was by now very damp and a bit odorous. Her feet were tracking dirt through the funeral home, but then so were everyone else’s. I didn’t envy the Chens their cleaning bills at this time of year.

I had been here a few weeks ago for the wake of a well-to-do local citizen—Benny Yee, Susan’s first murder victim (though his death was attributed to natural causes). This occasion was even grander, Joe Ning being a more prominent man, but very similar. There were tables of offerings and traditional floral arrangements, and there were Christian symbols alongside incense burners, statues of the Buddha, and banners with graceful Chinese calligraphy. I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck to see the coffin, which was on the other side of the main reception hall, beyond this throng of people. The closed casket looked expensive, dignified, and undisturbed.

“Well, nothing’s happened yet,” I said.

Max and I had been just about the only non-Asians at Benny’s wake, but Uncle Six’s business interests had been more extensive, and apparently so had his social contacts. Although most of the people here this evening seemed to be Chinese, certainly not all of them were. But I didn’t see Quinn’s distinctive head of red hair in the crowd.

And searching for him would take time because the place was so crowded. Max and I could scarcely push our way through the wall of people, and having Nelli with us made it that much more difficult.

“Wait,” I said, “there’s an easier way to do this.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Max said, brushing a total stranger’s hair out of his mouth.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket again and called Nolan, intending to ask exactly where he and Quinn were. The place was so noisy I was afraid he wouldn’t hear his own phone ringing, but he answered the call quickly.

“Esther?” It sounded like he was whispering.

“Yes,” I shouted. “I’m here at the wake and looking for you.”

I couldn’t hear whatever he said next. He
was
whispering.

“Speak up!” I shouted. “I can’t hear you!”

Instead of doing so, he ended the call. I stared at my phone in bemusement, wondering what to do now.

A moment later, I received a text message from him:

Can’t talk louder. Tailing Danny Teng on foot.

“He’s doing
what?
” Max exclaimed. “That sounds most unwise.”

I agreed. If a violent street thug like Danny Teng noticed he was being followed and felt threatened, I had a feeling the
best
outcome would put Nolan in a hospital bed.

In response to my texted query about what was going on, Nolan replied:

Teng arrived. Made scene. Claims Ning’s death is murder. Says he knows who did it.

Tailing him to learn more.

“If Danny knows Susan did it, well, she’s in custody. But we’ve got to warn Ted,” I said to Max, afraid that Danny would retaliate against Susan’s brother for her crime.

“Isn’t that Ted over there?” Max pointed off to our left.

Sure enough, it was. He looked glum, which was understandable. I didn’t see his mother with him, which was a relief. I supposed he had come here to pay his last respects to the man who had intended to finance
ABC.

“Thank God he’s here and safe while Danny is out prowling the streets,” I said. “But Nolan is
not
safe. What he’s doing could get him killed!”

“Agreed. I shall speak to Ted while you use your device to communicate with Mr. Nolan and convince him to halt his ill-advised pursuit before he comes to grief.”

“Right,” I said with a nod.

Taking Nelli with him, both of them still very damp, Max started pushing through the crowd, moving slowly and apologizing often, heading in Ted’s direction. Fortunately, the ex-filmmaker was not far away from this spot, and Max had nearly reached him by the time I finished my next text to Nolan:

Stop now. VERY DANGEROUS. Danny Teng is a killer!

I was kind of guessing on that last one, but it seemed likely.

Nolan wrote back:

Getting great material!

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

For a moment, I hoped Danny
would
shoot him. Then I banished the thought, which felt like it invited bad luck. I texted again.

Leave this to Quinn. SERIOUSLY.

The reply came back shortly, telling me that Quinn was sick and lying down inside Chen’s. In answer to my follow-up question, Nolan replied that Quinn had gotten dizzy and queasy soon after arriving here.

Was the illness a deliberate ruse of Quinn’s? Or was the entity making him ill? Well, either way, he was in the building, and so was the demon that was attached to him. So we needed to find him.

I texted again, asking exactly where Quinn was. I waited a few minutes, but there was no reply. I hoped Nolan was all right and was just absorbed in his pursuit of Danny Teng.

I couldn’t just stand around all night hoping Nolan would eventually reply. Besides, he might not even know the answer to my question. We had to search the building. If Quinn was still lying down somewhere, I thought it must be in the Chens’ office or one of the other workaday rooms behind the door marked “Private.” We should look there.

I had no intention of confronting a cadaver-animating demonic entity by myself, so I turned to look in Ted’s direction, intending to go grab Max and Nelli—and was relieved to see them coming back toward me, pushing their way through the crowd.

“Whatever Danny Teng thinks about Uncle Six’s death,” Max informed me, “he evidently doesn’t suspect Susan.”

“What did Ted tell you?”

“Danny showed up here briefly this evening, drunk and emotional. He is angry about Uncle Six’s death, but shows no sign of blaming the Yee family. He was, in his fashion, cordial to Ted and expressed condolences over Susan’s arrest.”

I wished the police would arrest Danny for providing Susan with that gun, but since they had not, I supposed he had covered his tracks too well for charges to stick. He was an impulsive idiot, but nonetheless an experienced criminal.