Vicious Circle

She glared at me again. I was still trying to think of something to say when DC Field lumbered up and handed her a note without so much as a glance in my direction. She took it, read it, and handed it back to him with a curt nod. He went away.

“A man and a woman came into my office two days ago,” I told Basquiat, as she turned her attention back to me. “They claimed to be Abbie’s parents. And they asked me to find her.”

“To find her dead body?” The detective’s tone was incredulous.

“No. To find her ghost.”

It didn’t sound much better. Before Basquiat could answer, I held up my hand in a kind of surrender. “Just tell me, sergeant, did Abbie Torrington die inside that circle?”

“Yes,” said Basquiat coldly. “She did. Stabbed through the heart by some sick fucks playing at witches and wizards.” She came right up close to me, dropping her voice so that her next words would just be between the two of us. “We’ve got her body down at the morgue right now, and you can bet we’re going over it with a fine-toothed comb. And if I find out you were one of the people who killed her, Castor, no power on earth is going to keep me from ripping your balls off. And then reading you your rights at great length while you bleed.”

The pit filled up. I thought it would fill with grief—grief for little Abbie, cut open like a side of meat as part of a satanist ritual—but it turned out to be anger.

“Let me read the scene,” I told her, biting back a lot of other words that were clustering behind my teeth, trying to get out.

“You are dreaming, my friend,” Basquiat snarled, shaking her head. “Whatever impression I may have given you earlier, you’re a suspect here. I asked Coldwood to bring you over in case you turned out to be the type who falls apart and confesses at the scene of the crime. Might have saved us some time. But since you’re not, I’ll have to see how the evidence pans out. The only reason I’m not hauling you in and sweating you right now is because Gary vouches for you—or more precisely, because he’s got you on the books as an informant, which means there’s interoffice paperwork to be filled in before I can get Fields to kick your teeth down your throat.”

“You let Fields do your dirty work?” I said. “I’m disappointed. Used to be, when you asked a cop for some strict discipline, you could at least rely on personal service.”

Basquiat had been on the point of walking away, and she already had her back to me. She swiveled on her heel and dealt me a scything, sideways punch to the head. Since my head was close to meltdown and my balance was all to fuck, I went sprawling. I heard a tuneless whistle of appreciation from one side of the room, running footsteps from the other. Looking up blearily, I saw Gary Coldwood standing over me.

“Mr. Castor tripped on the protective sheeting,” Basquiat said to him.

“Yeah. I saw. But I think he’s got his sea legs now. I don’t see him tripping anymore.”

“Depends if he stays around me,” said Basquiat. She knelt down, stared into my face. “I use Fields to do the softening up,” she said. “All the detail work I’ll do myself.”

She walked away, and Coldwood helped me back onto the vertical—or something close to it.

“Let’s get you some fresh air,” he muttered.

We went back out through the hall onto the street. I leaned against the front of the building, feeling the world turn around me.

“She’s got this thing about kids,” Coldwood explained. “Takes it personally when they get hurt. There was a pedo out in Kingston—guy who’d done time for raping a little boy, and it looked like he might be getting back into old habits. Fell down some stairs at his house while Basquiat was over there to run some questions past him. Broke his arm, did some serious damage to his back that he might never recover from. She booked him for assault: said he attacked her and went down the stairs when she used a judo throw in self-defense. Story stank, but who cares? He did another six months. Happy ending for everyone.”

I didn’t say a word. I was taking this personally, too, but I wasn’t going to start swearing any oaths of vengeance in front of a police officer. They’ve got a different set of rules for the general public.

“Get yourself a lawyer, Fix,” Coldwood said sadly. “A good one. Sooner or later, we’re going to pull you in formally, and a bad lawyer’s gonna leave you with egg on your face whatever happens.”

“I need—a lift home,” I said, slurring the words.

Coldwood examined me critically for a few seconds, then turned to one of the uniforms standing by the door, who were pretending not to listen.

“Drive him back,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And get the license number of that car he was driving. Just for the record.”

He went back inside without saying good night. I guess he felt he’d done me enough favors to be going on with.

Thirteen

WHETHER I DREAMED OR NOT THAT NIGHT, I DON’T REmember. Sleep was like a lead-lined box that I fell into, and the lid slammed shut over my head. It was as cold as the grave in there, and mercifully quiet.