Icarus w-2, page 26
part #2 of Westwood Series
"Okay. I'm looking at the screen, too. Go to the icon that says 'Investigative Tools.'"
Again, Jack clicked as per his instructions. He then typed in the information that Randy told him to type in at exactly the spots where Randy told him to type it. Within moments there was a long list of corporations and companies that had the word "grave" in them.
"You're gonna have to narrow it down, Jack. Or else you're going to have to check out each one of these. Looks like there's about a hundred and fifty – and that's just in New York. A lot of 'em you can get rid of immediately, I'm sure. This doesn't look like it's the world's greatest search engine, so I think you'll find words like 'gravy' and companies that have names that are just close; stuff like that'll clog up the list."
"Okay," Jack said. "You don't have to hang on while I do that. That could take a while."
"What else do you need?"
Jack told him that he had a credit card number that he wanted traced back to the owner.
"You don't have the owner's name?"
"No," Jack explained. "Just the number."
"That might take a little more time 'cause it's not the way the system's set up. I'll tell you what. Try finding what you want on this 'grave' list. Then, if you can narrow things down to a few names, we can track the credit cards for each person until you get what you're looking for. If that doesn't work, give me the number and I'll do a search. But I'll have to tap into a few things that might not be kosher."
"All right. Let me try it the kosher way first," Jack said. "Although I don't understand how this can really be legal."
"Trust me," Randy said.
"Believe me, I do. I also owe you. How much?"
"This? This was just a wake-up call. Consider this a freebie."
Jack thanked the Australian profusely, assured him he'd call him back if he got stuck on his search, and hung up the phone.
Then he went to work on his new CylockHolmes program.
– "-"-"IT TOOK ONLY twenty minutes for Jack to narrow his list down to six companies he wanted to check out. It was easy to eliminate all the "gravy" and "gravel" and "engraving" business that had popped up. Within minutes after he'd done that he had descriptions for the six he was interested in. There was only one that matched up exactly to the name on Kid's travel receipt, so Jack focused on that one first. It was a company called Grave Enterprises. The other five had addresses that automatically appeared alongside their names but there was no address for the company Jack was focused on. That fact alone made him certain he was on the right track.
He began using the various tools that CylockHolmes offered. He found a large number of vehicles registered to the company, all in New York State and New Jersey. He went into courthouse records to check the ownership of Grave Enterprises and found that it was part of another corporation, Migliarini Construction. The name rang a bell, although Jack couldn't initially come up with why. He then used his new computer program to run a search on Migliarini. It didn't take him long to understand why he knew the name. The more he searched, the more astonished he became. As he went along, he printed up anything that struck him as particularly relevant. An hour into his reading and research, CylockHolmes sent him to a list of newspaper and magazine articles as well as published books that had references to Migliarini Construction and its parent company, Joeva, Inc. At ten-thirty, he called the nearest Barnes amp; Noble. Whoever answered the phone told him they were open until eleven. Jack didn't even say thank you. He slammed the phone down, ran outside, and hailed a cab. He made it to the bookstore in fifteen minutes. By eleven-fifteen, he was back in his apartment, sitting in the leather living room chair under the Hopper painting, tearing through a book that had been published six months earlier called Future Crime: The 20th Century Gangster in the 21st Century.
By one-thirty in the morning, Jack knew he had what he was looking for. But to double-check he went to the computer and logged back on to CylockHolmes.
He made a few mistakes, wound up at a page that kept telling him to register again, but he finally got back on track. Under "Search," he typed in the name Eva Migliarini, a name he'd gotten from his reading. Information popped up immediately. He clicked on "Business Records," saw exactly what he expected to find. And then for his final cross-reference he tracked down two months' worth of her latest shopping sprees. There was nothing at all suspicious or seemingly illegal. But that didn't matter to Jack. All he needed was to match one particular item. And match it he did: he wouldn't have to call Raymond the computer whiz to get her Visa card number. He had her purchases. And on April 16, she'd bought two tickets for Bermuda. Jack looked at the receipt he'd taken from Kid's apartment. Same date. Same location.
Grave Enterprises, he thought.
Very fucking clever.
And you, too, Kid. Just as fucking clever. He could hear Kid's voice, as clear as if he were still standing in the room: She's got some really nasty friends and I don't think I want to piss them off just yet.
Nasty friends is right, he thought. But that didn't bother Jack, not now, because he was feeling even cleverer. Because when he finally closed his eyes and went to sleep at three in the morning, he knew he'd found what he was looking for: the first member of the Team.
He'd found the Mortician.
THIRTY-SIX
It was 11 a.m. and already feeling like a midsummer instead of late-spring morning. The air was warm and starting to buckle with humidity. Jack had had no more than five hours' sleep but he felt well rested and, unlike most of the New Yorkers who were already in a sweat-induced stupor, energetic. He was oblivious to the city's clamminess. He was oblivious to just about everything other than the fact that he was standing outside an elegant double town house on East Fifty-fourth Street, looking up at a tastefully engraved brass plaque on the front of the building that identified it as the Migliarini Funeral Home. Underneath that, in smaller engraved letters, it said: Joeva, Inc. The building blended in nicely with the rest of the ornate brownstones on the block. There were several foundations, one embassy, and a few private homes. This was a monied street and every penny showed on its surface. Jack was wearing a suit and tie now and he smoothed down the tie, straightened the front of his jacket, then buttoned the middle button. He gathered himself, went up the three steps to the funeral parlor in a surprisingly jaunty manner, and opened the front door.
He found himself in a subdued lobby. It all looked very… well, funereal. A receptionist eyed him, a look that conveyed her immediate condolences, then in a sympathetic and hushed tone asked if she could help.
"Yes," Jack said, matching her semiwhisper. "I'd like to see Eva Migliarini, please."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No," Jack said. "But tell her I'll only take up five minutes of her time and it's very important."
"May I have your name, please? And may I tell her what it's about?"
"Jack…" He stopped himself suddenly. "Sorry. Tell her that Kid Demeter is here to see her." He fingered the painful lump on the back of his head and said, "I think she'll know what it's in reference to."
The receptionist picked up the phone and pressed an intercom button. In the same whispered tones, she passed along Jack's message and then waited for a response. It took a little longer than she expected so she gave a perfunctory smile to Jack while she waited. It was the look of someone who was used to smiling vacantly at grieving people. In a few moments, she nodded and murmured, "Yeah, okay," and hung up the phone. "Ms. Migliarini said she can see you in about fifteen minutes. She'll buzz up when she's ready." He thanked her politely, then she pointed to several chairs off in a corner and said, "Please have a seat. I'll let you know when she calls."
Jack sat facing the receptionist and realized he was nervous. He was tapping his foot on the black-and-white marble floor and the index finger of his right hand on the arm of the dark wood chair. He forced his foot to stay still and, to occupy his hand, he reached into a small bowl filled with matchbooks and pulled one out. The matches had a black cover with plain white lettering that simply said, "Joeva, Inc." For no particular reason, he put the book in his pants pocket, then did his best to bide his time and study the lobby.
It was all quite properly somber. Marble floors, two overly-elaborate Greek-style columns that looked as if they were holding up the ceiling but which, Jack was sure, were purely decorative rather than structural. There were five doors that led to other rooms. He assumed these were waiting rooms for groups of mourners. The walls were thick and soundproof because judging from the hearses waiting outside – Hearses! Those were the registered vehicles he'd seen on CylockHolmes, he was sure of it – there was at least one funeral in progress but he could not hear a word being spoken nor a note of music being played. Jack nervously fingered the matchbook in his pocket with his left hand and began tapping with his right again. Finally, he heard the receptionist's now familiar husky whisper carry across the room.
"She can see you now, Mr. Demeter. Just take the elevator down one flight."
Jack nodded and rose. He sauntered across the room to the elevators – there were two – and walked into the one on the left when it arrived. He took it down one flight, pressing the button labeled "B," and when it stopped he stepped out.
The elevator door closed behind him and Jack found himself in a long, sterile hallway. The floor was covered in a cold-gray industrial carpet; the walls were almost the same dirty gray. There were no arrows pointing him in any particular direction and the two doors that he could see did not look as if they'd lead to any kind of executive office. He thought perhaps he'd misheard the receptionist, that she'd said go up one flight, then he figured he'd at least walk to one end of the hallway and check it out. He made a right and got about ten steps from the elevator. That's when he realized that the receptionist had not made a mistake. She'd sent him where they wanted him to be sent.
At the end of the hallway, appearing from around the corner, was a man in a gray business suit. The color of his suit, as well as his complexion, so matched the color of the hall that he almost faded into the background. Jack was fairly certain that this was the man who'd hit him when he was in Kid's apartment the day before.
He turned around to see what was behind him and he was not at all surprised to see a second man in a gray suit, probably the other man he'd seen in the apartment. This man was much shorter and had a little bit of a tan but looked just as unpleasant. Both men moved slowly and steadily toward him and Jack realized he did not have a hell of a lot of options.
"Fuck me," he thought and he wasn't aware he'd said the words aloud until the first man, the taller one, said, "That's right, pal. Fuck you."
The little one got there first and before Jack could turn around, he was rabbit-punched in the small of the back. He moaned and started to twist to the side but the tall man grabbed him and threw a compact right to Jack's stomach. All the air went out of him and before he could either speak or move, they were on either side of him, they'd grabbed both his arms and shoved him through the first doorway Jack had seen when he stepped out of the elevator.
The room was dark and Jack was hunched over, trying to get his breath back. It wasn't until the smaller man flicked on the light that Jack could see where they were.
They were in a morgue.
Several dead bodies were laid out on stainless-steel tables. One was half dressed – a man wearing a shirt and suit jacket but no pants. Another had clearly not been touched yet; it was an old woman and she was clothed in a simple cotton nightgown that was bunched up around her waist. There were probably twenty drawers built into the wall that had the look of big, heavy filing cabinets. Jack did not particularly relish finding out what was being filed in them.
He looked up to speak to the taller man but he was not in much of a listening mood. The man slashed down with his fist and hit Jack a hard blow over his left eye. Jack again started to go down, but the smaller man held him up and wouldn't let him go. Jack felt a trickle of blood on his forehead, sliding down onto his cheek.
"Listen, pal," the taller man was saying. "Let's get this straight. It'll be a lot easier for all of us if you pay serious attention to what I'm saying, okay?"
Jack nodded but that didn't seem to satisfy them. The smaller man rabbit-punched Jack again. The stabbing pain in his kidney was almost unbearable; the heat ran up and down his body and he had a flashback to the hospital bed in Virginia, when the pain had taken over and he hadn't wanted to live. He started to sweat and began to keel over again but this time it was the taller man's turn to hold him up and prevent him from falling.
"I asked you a question," the taller man said, "but I didn't hear an answer."
"Okay," Jack breathed and he thought he would explode from the pain that came with just speaking. But then he thought: No. I won't give in to it. I can't give in. And he remembered Kid saying, when the pain was bad in one of their early sessions: It's not injury. It's just surprise. So that's what Jack concentrated on. He wasn't hurt. He was just surprised as hell. It was pain, but it was pain that wouldn't last. "Paying serious attention," he said as the tall man waited. "Paying attention."
"Okay, good. So here's the deal. You stop fuckin' around with anything that has to do with your friend from the apartment. You stop fuckin' around with anything that has to do with the person you're bothering here. I don't think we even have to say her name, do we?"
Jack shook his head but when he saw the man's fist draw back, he gasped, "No. Don't have to say her name."
"So it's pretty simple. The bottom line is you go home and you stop fuckin' around."
As punctuation, he threw a quick right to Jack's stomach. It could have been worse – Jack thought the guy's heart was no longer in it – but it still did some damage. Jack doubled over and he felt a tiny dribble of vomit escape from his mouth and stream down his chin.
"Do we understand each other?" the tall guy asked.
"Yes," Jack said and when he spoke, he felt the little guy behind him let go of his arms. Slowly, very slowly and gingerly, Jack straightened up. He was standing on his own now, bent over slightly, one hand on his stomach, one hand using the nearest stainless-steel slab, the one holding the old woman, to prop himself up. And again Jack thought: It's not injury. It's just surprise.
It's just surprise…
"Can I ask one question?" Jack managed to say.
"Okay. One question," the taller guy agreed. "You seem like a nice guy, so why the hell not?"
"Isn't embalming fluid extremely flammable?" Jack gasped.
"What?" the tall guy said. "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"
Jack struggled to get his breath back. "I'll show you," he breathed out. And whirling to his left – they couldn't stop him, they didn't have a chance – he grabbed a glass bottle of embalming fluid that was sitting on the steel table. In the same motion, never slowing down, Jack finished his turn and smashed the bottle across the neck of the smaller man. Jack felt glass cut into his palm but he didn't even feel the sting. He saw blood spurt from the man's neck, but that didn't hold his attention either. The fluid flowed from the shattered container, drenching the man's jacket and shirt, and Jack, still moving, never stopping, had his left hand in his pants pocket. The little man staggered back one step and Jack used the extra room to raise his right elbow and jab it as hard as he could into the man's chin, which sent him back another foot. Then both of Jack's hands came together and as he finished his turn, he had a lit match in his hand.
"You motherfucker," the tall one said and took a step toward Jack. His eyes were incredulous but cold and Jack had no doubt that the man was absolutely capable of killing him without ever changing that expression.
"Don't move," Jack told him. He held the match out an inch closer to the little one. "Take one more step and I'll have no problem turning your friend into the biggest goddamn toasted marshmallow you ever saw."
The big man hesitated and Jack saw the liquid soaking into the smaller man's shirt now. He was drenched in the stuff.
"Ronnie, don't fuckin' move!" the little guy screamed. "I'm fuckin' covered in this shit!"
The match was almost out and Jack quickly lit another one before they could do a thing.
"Now," Jack said. "I want you to pay serious attention to what I'm saying, okay?" He moved the flame a fraction of an inch closer to the little man. "I didn't hear an answer to my question."
"You motherfucker," the tall guy said.
"Okay, close enough. You," he said to the big guy, "you're going to get Eva Migliarini and bring her to this room. If she's not here in five minutes, call the fuckin' fire department 'cause you're gonna need 'em to put out your friend's head."
The tall guy didn't say anything. He just narrowed his eyes, then nodded, turned, and left the room.
Jack turned to give his full attention to the smaller man, whose eyes were popping in terror.
"I think you cut my fuckin' artery," the smaller thug said. "Look at the fuckin' blood."
"Turn around," Jack told him.
"What?"
"Turn around."
The shorter man turned so his back was to Jack. Jack threw as hard a punch as he could into the man's kidney. The thug grunted and immediately dropped to his knees. Before he could make any kind of a movement, Jack had another lit match in his hand.
They stayed just like that for several more minutes. Jack heard the footsteps in the hallway before he saw anyone. Then the door to the morgue opened and a dark-haired woman wearing a short black dress and high heels strode in. She wore no jewelry except for a magnificent diamond wedding ring and an antique pink-gold woman's pocket watch, which she wore around her neck on a black silk string. Jack was startled by how attractive she was. When she walked into the room he could see the muscles in her legs ripple, just slightly, from the middle of her thighs all the way down to her calves. Her arms were tightly muscled, thin and elegant, her skin was deeply tanned but smooth and absolutely unlined. Her breasts were small but perfectly formed under the tight dress. Her eyes were almost coal black and they shimmered; there was a deep and compelling mystery to her eyes, as if they were their own separate universe. She looked to be in her late thirties but Jack knew from his reading she was almost a decade older than that. As he looked at her, he could hear Kid's words echoing in his head: They're almost perfect physical specimens. It's not only their looks. They're hungry. They want things. I don't know how else to describe it… their want is just overpowering.
