“Me? You don’t wanna see me. I’m ugly.”
“But your voice sounds so pretty. I bet you’re tellin’ me a big old fib.”
“Paradox, I’m gonna scan you the photo of Godsend right now. Let me know if he’s the man who took your money.”
It took Driscoll all of two minutes to scan Paradox the bulldozer incident mug shot, and half that time for Paradox to ID Pierce as Godsend.
“That be the dude, you honky-tonk man, you.”
“Paradox, you’ve made my day. I’m gonna cut a petty-cash voucher for a hundred dollars and have it mailed to you. I’ll need your address.”
Driscoll jotted down the Queens County residence and ended the call. His wristwatch read 7:05 P.M. He called St. Vincent’s Hospital and was told that Doctor Pierce was out of his office and wasn’t expected back until morning. He punched in Margaret’s cellular number one more time. When her voice mail announcement echoed in his ear, his eyes fell upon the Architectural Digest photo of Pierce’s palatial estate.
“Cedric, you hold the fort. I gotta get into that house. I got a bad feeling about this. What if the son of a bitch is holding her captive?” Driscoll said a silent prayer, grabbed hold of his Burberry, and headed for the door.
Chapter 86
It had become the Lieutenant’s habit to keep tabs on all ex-cons he had arrested, especially those who chose residence in his city, and Lazlo Bahnieski was no exception. After his release from the state penitentiary at Attica, Lazlo had exchanged his talents at breaking and entering for the pleasures of fishing for blues in the waters that surrounded Brooklyn, trading in his cat burglar’s ski mask for a captain’s hat.
Every dawn, he’d sail his trawler, Born Again, as it hosted amateur fishermen on a day’s outing a few miles east of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. It was a living and, with the help of Jack Daniel’s, Lazlo was a redeemed man.
Driscoll knew that all the fishing boats returned to harbor before dusk and that by 8:00 P.M. Lazlo would be stretched on his boat’s hammock, downing his favorite booze. In the now somber Sheepshead Bay marina, the Born Again was easy to find. At 8:15 P.M., Driscoll leaped onto the deck of the twenty-six-footer and rang the ship’s bell.
“Hold on, pardner!” the voice bellowed from below. “Next charter leaves at six A.M.!”
“All hands on deck!” Driscoll hollered.
The door to the cabin creaked open. “Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Lieutenant Driscoll.”
“The hat suits you, Lazlo. It hides your ugly mug.”
“Lieutenant, that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since lockup.”
“I’m here on business.”
“You’re getting married, and the bride wants a wedding at sea?”
“I’m investigating this guy, and I need your help. It’s time to sober up. I’ve got a job for you. I gotta get inside his house.”
“What you need is a judge and a warrant.”
“Already got it. But the place is likely to be more wired than AT amp;T. My attempt to get in might lock it down. I can’t have that. I’m depending on you to get me in and out without any problems.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Word on the street says O’Hara doesn’t give you much breathing room.”
“That parole officer is worse than a leg clamp.”
“I could see he gets a new assignment.”
“Let’s drink to that.”
“No time now. Someone’s life may be at stake.”
“OK, where’s the house?”
“Old Brookville. Let’s get a move on.”
It took Driscoll fifteen minutes to reach the residence. He parked the Chevy on the street, and he and Lazlo scurried along the property’s stone wall to the gated entrance.
“So far, so good. The grounds are alarm free. I didn’t pick up any signals,” Lazlo muttered, displaying an electronic scanning device.
They had reached the gate. Driscoll pressed the bell. No one answered. He pressed it a second time, producing the same results. Pierce was either not at home or wasn’t answering the door. “Here’s where you come in, Lazlo. How ’bout this gate?”
“Piece of cake.” the ex-con said, eyeing a digital keypad on the metal frame. He produced a miniature screwdriver from his knapsack and removed the unit’s cover, then stopped. “This is an import. And if we fuck up, we activate that camera,” he said.
“What camera?”
“That one!” Lazlo pointed at an electronic eye imbedded in a brick. He then produced a miniature handheld computer, connected an alligator clip to a black-and-white wire inside the unit, and fingered a tiny toggle switch. “That’ll do it,” he grinned as Driscoll watched a whir of red and green lights flicker on Lazlo’s handheld computer. “We’re in!”
The gate opened before them.
“Let’s get a move on,” Driscoll urged.
The entrance door’s lock quickly surrendered to the ex-con’s manipulation. Lazlo’s scanner detected no alarms inside the house.
“Here’s where you take a breather, Lazlo. I’m goin’ in alone.” Driscoll’s stomach churned as he pondered Margaret’s fate.
“Just like you to take the fun outa things. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Here’s a fifty for your troubles. The Long Island Railroad stops six blocks north of here. Take the train and head back to the marina. I might be a while.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” In a flash, Lazlo disappeared into the night.
Driscoll was now inside a marble-tiled vestibule, the starting point for his excursion inside Pierce’s house. He called out Margaret’s name. It prompted no reply.
Driscoll followed the beam of his flashlight and reached a dimly lit circular room with four staircases leading from it, like four spokes radiating from a wheel’s axis. The room boasted a frescoed cupola depicting what looked like a feminist resurrection. He wondered if it would be safe to turn on the lights. He groped the walls for a switch, but found none. There was a drawn curtain under one of the staircases, which stimulated his curiosity. He peeked behind the curtain. It concealed a large antique birdcage. The bird within it was three feet tall. There was a brass shingle with carved letters at the base of the cage. It read: LAMMERGEIER. Driscoll had studied such a bird in an adulted class on avian behavior at St. John’s University. The bird was a vulture whose diet included a preference for bone marrow. At the bird’s feet lay a bone. Driscoll reached for it. That’s when the bird attacked. It was swift, but fortunately for the Lieutenant, off-target. Driscoll’s fingers must have been an irresistible sight to the bone-hungry predator.
To whom did that bone at the bottom of the cage belong? Although it was a shattered fragment, it looked vaguely human, maybe a tibia or some other elongated limb bone. He wished he could get his hands on it. But the lammergeier was not about to part with it readily, and Driscoll was in no mood to wrestle with the beast.
Thoughts kept gnawing at him. Was that Deirdre’s tibia? Or Sarah’s femur? Or Clarissa’s ulna? Or, God forbid, Margaret’s radius? Does Pierce go on hunting expeditions for his pet? Does he stalk malls or parking lots or supermarkets looking for food for this bird? If that were so, then Driscoll had walked in on John Audubon’s worst nightmare. And were there any more raptors lurking?
He released the safety on his Glock 9-mm revolver and eyed the giant bird. As he stood, momentarily frozen, he prayed his fears about the bone were incorrect, but the anxiety wouldn’t be easily dismissed, and it was not a simple task to focus on the moment.
He shouted for Margaret, and floodlights illuminated the majestic cupola. The room was sound sensitive. Driscoll opened a door that led into a library. Leather-bound books lined varnished shelves. In the middle of the room, a Louis XVI desk gleamed under his flashlight. He caught the shimmer of a tiny dot of light emanating from a rectangular metal box connected to an antique telephone. Driscoll played the messages. A reedy academic voice thanked Pierce for his largess toward the construction of a cardiac wing at Saint Finbar’s Hospital Center. A man with a thick Italian accent promised the delivery of a new Lancia that would be offloaded at the port of Elizabeth, New Jersey, on the thirty-first. A secretarial voice from Chelsea Chemicals confirmed the delivery of order #69732-B to his home address. The machine ceased.