King of Swords

'What basically happens is a witchdoctor will administer a potion on a person either orally or topically. This paralyses them and shuts down key parts of the brain. They look clinically dead. No breathing, really weak pulse, slow heartbeat.

They get buried.

'A few days later, the witchdoctor digs them up and brings

them back to life with an antidote. Except they don't fully return to the land of the living. They're very much alive, but their minds are gone. They don't recognize anyone they know: friends, family, whoever.

'You see, the potions they've been given also contain powerful hallucinogens which make the person believe they're dead. The zombie then becomes the witchdoctor's personal slave, doing everything their master orders.'

'Like killing someone in a courtroom?' Max asked.

'Sure. It's highly possible. A mixture of hallucinogens and hypnosis alone could turn a person into a killer. In fact, the levels of scopolamine found in the brain and blood of the shooter indicate that he was tripping when he killed Moyez.

'Scopolamine is found in mandrake, which was in his stomach. Mandrake belongs to a class of plants called “deliriants”

— very powerful hallucinogens. Under their influence people have been known to talk to themselves, believing they're addressing someone else. Except that there'll be dialogue instead of monologue, because people under the influence take on the characteristics of the person they're talking to — accent, patterns of speech, you name it.'

'Like schizos?'

'Deliriants induce a kind of schizophrenia, yes, but one which comes with a propensity for violence too. I've seen people beat the shit out of themselves, thinking they're attacking an enemy. Most of the time, once the deliriant wears off, a person will have absolutely no recollection of what happened.'

'Like sleepwalkers?'

'lixactly like a sleepwalker,' Raquel agreed.

'How common's the stuff you found in the stomach?'

'Garden variety. Except the bean.'

'How soon can you get a result?'

'That's a piece of string question, Max. It's a full house

in the morgue today. And one of them's a cop. A DEA sting got stung on the east side. You hear about that?'

'On the way in, yeah.'

'We think he got shot by one of his own.'

'On purpose?'

'We won't know until the results are in. Cocaine's turned this city inside out and upside down.'

'Tell me about it,' Max said. 'We're in a blizzard, walking blind.' He paused, lowered his voice and leant across the desk a little, 'Raquel, I don't wanna put any pressure on you, but I really do need to know what that bean is.'

Raquel looked at him hard for a moment, then leant over the desk towards him and winked. 'This another of your off-the-books crusades, Max?'

'I'd appreciate your discretion, yeah.'

T should've known when you showed up right at the start of my shift. You normally come in when I'm, you know, right in the middle of something important.'

'I know you're real busy . . .' Max began.

'Eldon know about this one?'

Max shook his head. Raquel drew breath mock dramatically and mimicked his headshake.

'Let's keep this between us, huh?'

'Sure. What do I get out of it?'

'What can I do for you?'

'Well, what can you do for me, Max . . . ?'

'You still drink mojitos?'

'When I get the time.'

'Then the next time's on me. If you can stand my company.'

You know attempting to bribe an officer of the law is a federal crime?'

'You started it.' Max grinned.

'Deal,' she said.

'Can you call me at home, when you get the result?'

'OK.'

'Thanks, Raquel. I appreciate it. Can I get a copy of this Haitian's file?'

Back in his apartment Max sat down at the phone and started going through his list of tarot-card stores, distributors and individual suppliers, asking if they stocked Charles de Villeneuve cards. Many of the stores and distributors hadn't heard of them, but the few that had explained they could only be obtained directly from the family. The solo operators were more helpful, offering to get him a deck and quoting him prices varying from $ 5,000 to $ 10,000. Had they ordered any for anyone recently? No, they answered.

After fifteen calls he took a break, made coffee and smoked a couple of cigarettes on his balcony. It was a sunny day with a good cool breeze undercutting the heat; he could smell the sea in the air. Unfortunately the illusion of paradise was shattered when his gaze ranged over Lummus Park below. They should have renamed it Fuckups Park.

He sat back down on his couch and looked at his call list.

The next place was a shop — Haiti Mystique, the owner's name one he recognized — Sam Ismael, who'd been one of the prospective developers in the Lemon City reconstruction programme that had been awarded to Preval Lacour and Guy Martin.

Before he could pick up the receiver the phone rang.

It was Joe, calling from a payphone, sounding out of breath and harassed.

'I know who the Moyez shooter was,' he said, 'and I've just found his family. Bring the tools and lose your breakfast.'

33