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The Legal Stuff: Murphy's Law: Book II - Red Harvest  © 2009 by josie.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

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In Essex, just outside Waterston, there’s this wonderful place where his father would take the family out for a picnic when the cherry blossoms were in bloom. He remembered it as a much longer trip back then. Or so it seemed for a young boy who had to stand on the seat of that old Packard just to see the ocean of white blossoms that dotted the landscape against the rolling green hills beyond.

Then when that one, best-of-all spots was found, his mother would spread out a blanket and set out the lunch while he played in the snow-like petals that covered the ground. They were velvety soft to touch, almost sinfully alluring to look at, much like the temptation he saw in his mother's blood red lips when she looked to favor his father. He felt as though the beauty and the bounty he saw around him was his own personal treasure, as perfect as anything can be.

“Yes,” his mother had agreed, “the blossoms are beautiful and later will come the harvest of the sweet fruit, sinfully wild to enjoy. Except for greedy little boy’s who suffer a bellyache from the sin of overindulging,” she'd tease, "and of course the crow who in their lust for the blood red fruit breach the pit. So keep in mind there’s disappointment and regret beneath the beauty and the bounty of the Red Harvest as well.”
 

*          *          *
 

 
 
Scene I: Jack Murphy’s New Partner
 
 
Brooklyn, New York

April 3^rd, 1963

Jack slowly hobbled his way across the parade field on his crutches, just as obstinate as ever and still clinging to that pig-headed notion of self-sufficiency. That step-swing-step glide made for a tough commute no matter how you cut it, especially for a man like Jack Murphy. A man who prided himself on getting things done, and the unassisted miles he had put on those size 12, EE shoes.

He caught up with Abe Monday just moments before the ceremony was to begin. To his right stood Arina and Michelle, behind him the 3rd precinct looking their finest dressed in parade blues.

“Better late then never huh, Jack?” Abe nudged his friend, his attention focused on the events unfolding on stage.

Leaning forward on his crutches Jack peered around Abe’s large frame and silently acknowledged Michelle, returning her smile. The look in her eyes told him all he need know. She was safe, happy and once again whole, no longer caught in the twilight, hovering between this world and Vlady’s dark world of hatred and deceit.

He warmly embraced Arina’s smile as well. He was glad to see she had finally found her footing. It had been no less a struggle for her, nor would the wounds be easy to mend. Like so many other wrongs in this world, those wounds were left for time alone to heal.

“Broken femur, remember Abe?” Jack leaned down and tapped his cast.

“Huh, you wouldn’t happen to be looking for a little sympathy, would yah, you ornery ol’coot?” Abe cracked a smile.

“I would if I thought you had any to give out, Meathead.”

“Tsk, tsk,” Abe followed his lead. “There you go calling me a Meathead when I was just about ready to offer you a job.”

“You offering or were you planning on leaving without me?” Jack relied. His dry, dead-pan expression unchanged throughout as the Mayor delivered the final words of his address and the honor guard raised their guns in salute.

“I’m offering. Are you taking?” Abe managed to get out between the thunderous rounds.

Jack smiled then looked up at Cecil, now shaking hands with the list of local dignitaries. “He looks good up there, doesn’t he?” Jack looked on with some pride.

“He ought to. He had one hell of a role model.”

“Well, least I got him to swear off them jelly donuts. That ought to account for something.”

“The kid took one giant leap for mankind and has won the Medal of Honor. Yeah, sure, it had to be the jelly donuts!” Abe smirked and Jack paid him no mind as he watched the Commissioner award Cecil his medal followed by a pair of Sergeant’s stripes for both Arn and himself. Cecil’s to accompany his promotion to detective, and Arn’s to take with him into retirement.

“So, what about it?” Abe finally turned to face his hobbled friend on crutches.

Jack thought for a moment then replied with an expression almost as oblique as his sidelong glance. “Know what I’m thinking about, buddy?”

“No, tell me.” Abe took the bait.

“I’m thinking about a nice little place with a cherry orchard round back. You got something like that you’re willing to offer?”

“You mean someplace out in the countryside where a guy can grow old, fat and lazy like me?”

“Sure, leastwise that’s how I envisioned it. Maybe I’ll get me one of those plump little Romanian housemaids too.”

“One without the fangs, right?”

“Well now, that might not be so bad. Look what that Transylvanian bloodsucker did for Arn. He looks younger. He’s definitely carrying around a lot bigger smile and he hasn’t been this sober in twenty years.”

Abe laughed. “You know, Jack, I think I finally found the guy I should have married.”

“You think so?” Jack made a bit of a face.

“Yup! We’d have been the perfect odd couple.”

“Felix was the quirky one, right?” Jack played with the thought.

“Quirky? Hell, they were both nuts.”

“Yeah, well, that much fits. By the way,” Jack led into his next round of tortured thought. “That job you’re offering. It wouldn’t happen to be for a Meter Maid would it? Cause I wouldn’t want to disappoint. Honestly, I don’t think I can do the skirt and heels thing. At least not up to the same award winning standard Cecil managed to pull off.”

“You’ll learn, Jack!” Abe throw his arm around his hobbled friend’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go see if we can roust us up a vamp with enough of a bite to get you into those Meter Maid heels.”

“I guess I’m going to need me some longer crutches.” Jack smiled then started out with Abe keeping pace with his step-swing-step glide.
 

*          *          *
 
 
 
Two weeks earlier . . .

 
 
The patrol car radio crackled to life as Jack approached the intersection. He leaned in, reached for the radio and responded with his location. It was a general call coming from outside his designate area of operation, but waited through the long burst of static regardless, to see if anyone would pick up the call.

“That’s a 411, isn’t that us?” Cecil inquired, though carefully. The last thing he wanted was to trip over Murphy’s short fuse.

“No, it’s Harrington’s,” he managed to get out before the follow up from dispatch came through directing his unit to respond.

“Wishful thinking,” replied Cecil as he flipped on the siren and the red light.

Jack negotiated the speeding squad car through the heavy traffic with practiced precision while Cecil fastened his belt, eased back in his seat and took stock of the man sitting behind the wheel. His focus was intense and the lines on his face were illuminated by the alternate flashes of amber and red. And that’s how he saw him.

“One day everything you touch glows golden amber, the next foreboding red of things gone wrong. The job is a trial in progress, not a decision,” that much he knew. It’s a test of character not decided by wins, but how you bounce back from the losses. Only the finest raise to the top in this war, and that’s what defined Jack Murphy.

“He isn’t perfect,” but in his eyes, “Jack Murphy will always be the guy I’d want on my side, no matter the outcome.”

“. . . Well, you sure didn’t win yourself no favors downtown, that’s for certain,” Jack’s voice cut into his thoughts. “It took a big set to say what you did, and the way I see it, you ought to be wearing that with some pride.”

Cecil sat back in the seat monitoring their progress while trying his best to keep his emotions in check. If he was feeling that pride it would have been hard to tell from the cool indifference he wore on his face. Sure it was a winning concession followed by the time-honored punch to the forearm delivered by a man whose opinion he wholly respected. It was notable praise to be sure, but even as a rookie he knew in this line of work you wore your stripes on the sleeves, not your feelings.

“A left here, Lieutenant,” Cecil called out with the new found sense of confidence that only comes with proving you’re made of the right stuff.

They had just left the Commissioner’s office where the Kline case hearing had been held and were now traveling east on Delaney a little more than a half-mile from the Tremont address. The area was out of Jack’s usual bailiwick and given his druthers would have preferred someone else pick up the call. Unfortunately Harrington was busy, and as he was the only other crime scene investigator available in the area at the time, he hadn’t the luxury. “I told yah Cecil. The name’s Jack, please.”

”Yeah, okay, thanks Jack!” Cecil smiled.

”For what?” Jack sounded rather annoyed.

“For the opportunity. You know, to . . .” he fought to find the words, “to prove myself.”

“You’ve earned it, Cecil. Don’t downgrade what you did.” Jack made a hard left and then raced down 143rd until he saw the gathered crowd, the ambulance and the bevy of patrol cars parked at the scene. He found a place to park across the street, shut down the old black and white cruiser then turned toward Cecil. “Look Cecil! No one expected you to say diddly-squat at the hearing, but the fact that you did shows me a lot.”

“Yes I did!” Cecil replied with a fistful of defiance. “Captain Turner was wrong. Dead wrong, and he was lying through his teeth.”

“Yeah, well, thanks buddy. If you hadn’t stepped in I would’ve been shark bait for sure.”

“Nah, besides, Gerald dropped the assault charges anyway.”

“Amelia!” Jack corrected.

“Gerald, Amelia, whomever! The point is there was nothing there, except disobeying Turner’s supposed cease and desist order that I knew was a lie. It’s just like I said to the Commissioner,” he added as if feeling the need to recount his testimony.

“I asked Turner how he felt about the merits of the case on the very day it all came down. He stated his opinion and I listened. I then asked him why he didn’t just order you to drop the case if he was convinced it was a dead end.”

“I’m not sure what I expected him to say,” Cecil followed, “but it sure wasn’t that. I mean imagine the nerve it takes to look a fella in the eye and say, ‘No, I want him to stew in his own juices. It’ll taste better.’ He was cool as a cucumber when he said it too. Like some voodoo witch doctor thrusting a pin into your back.”

There was a long silent pause followed by the sound of Jack sucking in a lung full of air, then slowing releasing the gut full of tension that had been building up. “I just said the truth. That’s my job, right, to tell the truth?”

“Don’t worry kid, the Commissioner saw you weren’t trying to grease your own skids. Still, it took some moxy to say it, and you oughta be damn proud of it.” Jack made his peace and reached out to shake his hand to seal the deal. Then with a slight, self-assured grin he asked, “No more jelly donuts?”

“Nope! Gave them up. They fatten you up like a porker and my mama didn’t teach me to grow up to be a pig.”

Jack smiled, slipped on his fedora and opened the door, “Come on partner, let’s me and you go do us some investigating.” Only this time, he promised himself, he was going to let this case come to him.
 
 
Scene II: The Crime Scene
 
 
Jack and Cecil were greeted by a patrolmen standing guard to secure the scene. The area was cordoned off and his partner was standing some feet away talking with a gentleman and an elderly lady while the medical examiner awaited his arrival.

“Detectives?” the officer enquired.

“Yes, Jack Murphy, 4th precinct. This here is Cecil Benover, my assistant. Are you the OIC?”

“Yes Sir, Marvin Costanza, 3rd precinct,” he replied, only he was looking past him, giving Cecil the once over, his expression slightly askew.

Jack knew the look. He had seen it before on the faces of those who’d stare and wonder how a fidgety little guy half their size could land such a plum job. Fact is, the scrutiny was almost expected. As expected as what he knew was coming next.

“Ben-over?” the patrolman framed his response in such a way that anyone within ear shot couldn’t help but insinuate the missing “d.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack fired off, “just like you’re going to be doing once I tag you with a fat lip, moron.” Jack palmed his fedora, adjusted the rim and followed quite calmly, “Now, officer Costanza, if you will kindly tell me what you’ve got here.”

“You tell me,” Costanza sounded off, a tad irate. “We arrived at the scene at 5:15 approximately 10 minutes after receiving the emergency call from Mr. Turley,” he said with a nod toward the man who was talking with his partner. “He lives in the apartment building across the street and states he was in the process of closing a bedroom window when he heard a scream, looked round and saw the victim terminating her aerial gymnastics.”

“Yeah, so, why call homicide?” Jack looked up, spotted the curtain blowing out of the fifth floor window of the old brownstone, then down at the covered body sprawled out on the sidewalk directly below.

“Patience Lieutenant, you haven’t heard the punch line. It seems about a minute after witnessing the fall he saw a female run out of the building and jump into red, 58 Chevy Bel-Air coupe with a white top. He described her as young, Caucasian, 5-7, 5-8, thin, bosomy with shoulder length black hair. She was wearing a long black skirt and a white blouse.”

“Now here’s the kicker,” Costanza added. “He says the woman was in such a hurry to leave that she apparently stepped on the gas before releasing the emergency brake. When she finally did release the brake the car lurched forward, jumped the curb and smashed into the parking sign.” Again he nodded, only this time toward the pole with a sign resting on the ground alongside the shattered glass of a headlamp.

“He sounds pretty sure about the make of the car,” Jack replied.

“He should. He’s a mechanic. He works at the Chevrolet garage on 85th.”

“Well that oughta do it. You put an APB on the car?”

“Yes, they’re looking for it now.”

Jack again looked up and asked, “You’ve got the apartment sealed off?”

“Yes, I’ve got it cordoned off with a patrolman at the door.”

“I don’t see anyone from forensics. They show up yet?”

“Nope, they’re busy cleaning up Harrington’s mess. Dispatch has diverted a back up unit and they’re on the way.”

Jack spotted Henry Snyder, the attending Medical Examiner completing his paper work alongside the body. “Hey, Henry, enjoying the spring weather?”

“I’ve seen better, Murph, and you?”

“Not bad, actually. I got me a new polka partner. I’ve been working on that seven-step, schottische-style.”

“Geeze, don’t tell me some crazed Nazi dentist has got you by the testicles too?” Henry dished out a plate of his usual deadpan wit. Although it did come with a rather broad grin, which on the whole, suited the man quite well. Maintaining a sense of humor is important in his line of work and Henry was no exception. After all, he had just taken quite a licking from that two-timing dentist he had been married to. Only a year into his third marriage and the cheap German import had gotten away with everything but his socks in the divorce settlement.

“I said polka, Henry, not Goose Step.”

“Hey, if I had known those gold-capped teeth weren’t hers before I married her maybe I might still have my balls.” Jack laughed and slapped his old friend on the back before getting back to the uncomfortable business at hand. “Well, what do you have for me, my friend?”

“Hum, well, the way I’ve got it figured it was a first rate plunge. Head first!”

“You found any lacerations, bruises, abrasions, contusions or 38 caliber bullet holes otherwise not accounted for?”

“Nah, looks like a routine Swan dive. By the looks of it, I’d say she scored a perfect 10. Can I bag her up?”

“Yeah, sure, you got a name?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot the introduction,” he replied while unzipping the body bag. “Jack Murphy, meet Sonya Pavel. 58 years old, 5-9, approximately 145 pounds, brown hair, green eyes, Caucasian and it would seem, still maidenly.” Other than the slightly askew symmetry, I’d say she was in reasonably good health, and fairly good looking.

“Maidenly, at 58?” Jack enquired.

“Not much of a social life I guess. You need any 8 by 10 glossies?”

“No, but I could use something along the lines of an anti-acid. You got anything in your bag, doc?” Henry turned toward Cecil, put his arm around his shoulder and told him, “Look out for this ornery ol’coot. I think he might be losing the stomach for the job.”

A few moments later he walked over toward Costanza’s partner. Beside him stood Marie Donizetti, the building super, and Gene Turley, the gentleman who had witnessed the fall and called for emergency assistance.

He introducing himself then took Mr. Turley aside and listened attentively as he repeated the story he had told the patrolman. He seemed a very thorough and competent eye-witness. He even managed to expand on his previous recollection of the woman he had seen running from the building. Upon further reflection he decided she wasn’t “running” out of the building. Rather, she was walking at a quickened pace with long strides and a rather masculine gait.

“Athletic?”

“From the way she moved, yeah, I’d say she was someone who was strong and agile.”

“That’s a pretty strong description considering you only got a momentary glimpse of her.”

“I was looking down right at her. See there?” he pointed to his apartment window directly across the street one story up. “I had me a birds-eye view.”

“Think you could pick her out of a line-up?”

“Well now, I didn’t say she was looking up at me.”

“Hm, well, come to think of it, no you didn’t. Although you did say you heard a scream as the victim fell, right Mr. Turley?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Turley, because timing is everything?”

“Dead certain!”

“Well let’s see now. You said it took you a moment before you were able to spot the falling victim after you heard the scream. Since it takes approximately 2.1 seconds to complete a 50 foot fall I’d say you reacted pretty darn quickly.

“So?” Mr. Turley sounded off. “What’s the difference?” he followed defensively.

“Plenty, Mr. Turley! Screaming out before the fall might mean she wasn’t exactly looking forward to the experience. So now, please tell me again. Did you hear the scream before or during the fall? Just don’t tell me it was after.”

“After? What’s with the attitude, officer?” He snapped back. “I’m giving you the square deal.”

“Because it’s important that the lady lying over there gets a square deal too,” Jack replied, not backing down an inch.

“Yeah, well, sure” the gentleman backed off and moderated his tone, “I guess I ain’t really all that certain. It could have been before.”

“Fine, Mr. Turley. If I need further information I’ll be in touch.” He concluded his questioning and was walking back toward Mrs. Donizetti, the building Super, when he saw a forensic van pull up.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Donizetti. I’m Lieutenant Murphy with NYPD and this is my partner, Cecil Benover. May I call you Marie?”

“Please, detective.”

“Fine, now I wonder if I might ask you to accompany me upstairs.” He dismissed the patrolmen and took up the dear woman’s hand. Then along with Cecil they followed the forensic team into the building. Cecil with his notebook in hand taking scrupulous notes, and Jack listening to Mrs. Donizetti reminisce about her recently deceased tenant as they worked their way up the stairs.

Marie Donizetti turned out to be a rather spry woman with a healthy set of lungs, at least for a 68 year old. She maintained a constant flow of chatter as the trio wound their way up the 5 flights. A steep and strenuous climb as the stairs tended to be in those old 20’s era brownstones. She was also quite animated, and if she was feeling the strain of just seeing her tenant and friend fall to her death, she had a funny way of showing it.

While the forensic team went through the apartment Jack sat down in the kitchen to continue his talk with Mrs. Donizetti. She had quite a bit to say about the deceased Sonya Pavel, whose actual first name was Oana. Sonya being an adapted name she had assumed after she emigrated from Communist Romania, supposedly to help ease the transition to a new life in America. Or so she had told the dear Mrs. Donizetti.

“She was a good tenant and friend,” Mary Donizetti began. “She worked very hard to make her way, starting out with nothing more than the clothes she wore when she arrived in this country. Not an easy course for anyone. Yet all the time I knew her she remained full of hope and optimism. She was not the woman you see laying out there in the street.”

“Where were you when it happened, Mrs. Donizetti?”

“Out shopping I am afraid. I returned just shortly before you arrived, Mr. Murphy.”

“She lived alone, is that correct?” He followed up.

“Yes, I suppose her life was such that the dear woman never had time to find someone to share the burden.”

“You mean in terms of intimate relationships, correct Mrs. Donizetti?”

“Yes, though she was pretty enough and her English was passable despite her heavy Romanian accent. I don’t think that was the problem. Although,” she added after giving it further thought. “It might have limited her circle of acquaintances. As it was, outside myself there were few who truly knew her.”

To further complicate Sonya’s life she had a teenaged daughter named Michelle who no longer lived with her. Mrs. Donizetti didn’t know Michelle by any other name, so she assumed she must have been born in this country and thus, given an American name.

“She wasn’t her birth child certainly, correct Marie?”

“Oh dear, well Sonya never said she wasn’t so I just assumed . . .” she tried to explain. “Although I suppose it was rather naíve of me to not have figured that out myself. Michelle hadn’t her looks at all. Don’t misunderstand. Sonya was quite pretty, but Michelle was unique in that regard.”

“She must have been a lovely girl,” he offered a sympathetic smile.

“Yes, I’m afraid I have no other words to describe her. She had an exceptional beauty, but she was also deeply troubled.”

“Troubled?”

“Yes. You see, she suffered from a debilitating mental condition. Her behavior was difficult to manage and even harder to predict. One moment she was like the essence of life itself and the next, withdrawn, sullen and lost to this world.”

“What about school?”

“Oh, she managed well for a period of time, but when she reached the age when a girl begins to . . .” she paused, then with a blush, “Well, I’m certain you understand, Mr. Murphy.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that sort of thing does happen.”

“I suppose. I know many girls experience that sort of thing, but honestly, not quite like that.”

A member of the forensic team interrupted their conversation and asked that Jack accompany him into the bedroom. Jack thanked Mrs. Donizetti for her help and told her he would be in touch if he needed any further information. He gave Cecil a nudge wanting him to accompany Mrs. Donizetti back down the stairs and then followed the investigator into the bedroom.

On the windowsill he was shown a clearing of dust where someone had sat, a palm imprint on each side. Proof that Sonya Pavel had fallen from that window, and with no signs of a struggle, proof that she sat on that narrow ledge, screamed then executed the Swan dive exactly as planned. That explanation of course didn’t negate the possibility she might have been offered a slight nudge before hand.

There was something else to consider as well. On the bed a closet full of clothes had been piled high as if someone in a moment of rage had just ripped them off the hangers and tossed them about. It was a sign that there had been some preceding event at the root of it all. The evidence did show that she had set herself up for the jump, but not necessarily unaided nor without a traumatic event preceding it.

No suicide note had been found and nothing else appeared touched. That would include some loose cash sitting on top of the bureau and a jewelry box filled with a modest selection of jewelry. Not much, but enough for someone to snatch if robbery were a motive.

“So where did the hurried woman seen exiting the building fit into this?” he wondered. “Assuming she had a role to play, it had to be someone important enough in her life to allow her inside her home, perhaps even into this very room. Someone very close, whose words were stinging and hurtful,” he speculated. Then as the timing of events seemed to show, “it was only after her departure that the devastated woman took her own life. So then, who was the unknown woman?”

“An intimate perhaps, a woman who might have even shared her bed that Mrs. Donizetti didn’t know about? A scorned lover like that would certainly fit the bill, but the woman seen leaving the building was young, and it would be hard keeping the perimeters of that kind of relationship sight unseen.”

“She did have a daughter, though not a child by birth. Nor was she living with her any longer. Still, as the evidence would seem to show a ‘troubled’ daughter did fit the criteria possibly better than any other plausible explanation.” In fact, he wholly expected he’d find her daughter hanging on to the end of this thread before he was through. His analysis of the scene was then interrupted by the patrolman who had been posted at the front door.

“Detective Murphy, they’ve located the car abandon. It belongs to a Michael Chapmen, 2306 East Sanger. We’ve already questioned the kid, but he’s covered.”

”It’s solid?”

“I’d say so. He had reported the car stolen at 9 A.M this morning after finding it missing when he woke up. The ignition switch had been pulled as well.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that covers it.”

“We’re running the car for prints. Do you want us to detain the kid?”

“No reason to take the kid in, but I’ll need to have a look around and meet him. Give the patrolmen on site a call and tell them I’ll be there in 30 minutes after I finish up here.”

“Michael Chapman! So much for an easy fix,” he sighed, paused a moment to think it through, then set off to have a last look around. Sitting on top a bureau he found two pictures. One appeared to be of Sonya and her daughter, Michelle. The other was of her daughter and some unknown woman. He asked a member of the forensics team to catalogue the items before stuffing them into a protective envelop to take with him.

A moment later he was on his way to meet Michael Chapman. A Michael Chapman with a girlfriend or a wife, perhaps related to Sonya, he was most anxious to meet.
 
 
Scene III: Michael Chapman
 
 
Michael Chapman lived in a tenement on Sanger. On the whole, the brownstone tenements that lined the streets for miles in both directions were old and in some cases, dying remnants of the proud middle class who once lived there. The graffiti and the occasional boarded up window spoke to the decline. As did the crowd of chronically unemployed sitting on the tenement steps up and down the street. The stoop next door included, but not on Michael Chapman’s.

Unlike the others, his tenement remained uniquely untouched by vagrants, vandals or blight. This in itself seemed nothing short of a miracle, especially since the newly refurbished building he lived in seemed such a likely target. The refinished stone and woodwork restored to its original luster looked as well presented as any seen on the upper Westside. Even the potted yellow geraniums that sat on the stoop seemed immune to the urban decay that was eating the rest of the neighborhood alive.

Even more amazing, not only did those who lived in the street keep a respective distance from his home, but apparently extended that privilege to his car as well. Yes, it had been stolen, but it had been left abandon just a few short blocks away. Left entirely intact, tires included. Now if that couldn’t be called divine intervention, Jack didn’t know what could.

When Jack and Cecil arrived they found the two patrolmen waiting in front of the building as ordered. Jack asked the patrolmen to recount the details of the interview and was told Michael Chapman was 19, worked as a musician and was single. The evening before Michael had returned home late from work. When he woke up at 9 A.M he found his car missing. A stolen car report had been filed, but as these things go, the system was so over taxed that nothing had as yet been done to locate the missing vehicle.

“I’d say he’s pretty lucky.” Jack replied. “Has he seen the car yet?”

“No, we told him the car was being printed and would be returned to him once we’re done.”

“Has anyone spoken to him about the condition of the car?”

“No, but then he didn’t ask either.” Jack asked Cecil to remain with the patrolmen and went in to talk with the boy.

Michael greeted Jack at the door. He was dressed in a brown bathrobe that draped down to the top of his sandals. With a hood and long bell sleeves, the robe looked the sort of thing you’d envision a monk might wear. And in a like manner, the robe buried all but his face beneath its thick wool weave.

An interesting face it was too. If a person’s worth were appraised by your looks, this kid would have been Fort Knox. He’s face was lean with smooth clean lines and a shadowy hollow beneath the cheek bones. His lips were rich and full, and the arch of his brows swept like wings over a pair of emerald green eyes that refused to let you go. Those eyes, that face looked as if drawn in soft pastels by a stroke of an artist’s brush that reached from his smooth, unblemished chin to the top of his clean shaven head.

It was hard to think of him as handsome or masculine or even feminine for that matter. Rather he looked like something that hovered about in a twilight world between.

“Mr. Chapman, what a pleasure to meet you. I’m detective Murphy from NYPD and I’m here to report we’ve located your vehicle.” He punctuated with a smile, though ever so slightly smug. “May I,” he asked with his fedora in hand pointing the way inside.

“Oh sure, come in detective, please.” Michael led him into a tidy and well appointed living room with Scandinavian-style white furnishing. All rather chic and modern with delicate white lace curtains covering the one window. On the wall adjacent the couch hung a large, handcrafted tapestry.

The tapestry was blood red in color with an intricate weave of old world patterns about the edges. Centering the tapestry was a medieval cathedral scene with a large man in black standing in front. About his shoulders he wore a cape with a high, stiff collar that rose up to frame the back of his head. In one hand he held a shield, in the other a spear. It was quite an intriguing bit of artistry. Very old, hand stitched and dyed, and all seemingly constructed in such a way that it drew Jack’s focus inward toward the man’s eyes that seemed to follow him wherever he traveled throughout the room.

Michael sat down upon the sofa while Jack chose to remain standing to have his look around. Still fidgeting with his fedora clasped in his hands.

“You know, you’re a very fortunate young man,” he smiled and wagged a finger as if lecturing the boy. “I mean, someone steals your car, returning it a few hours later and leaves it almost where he found it.”

“Now, that’s what I call good fortune, young man,” he added as he walked toward the window to have a look at those lovely curtains.

“Though I see you’ve had your share of good luck already.” He muttered while gently caressing the delicate lace with the tips of his fingers. They were also hand stitched, the delicate lacework sewn in a pattern of connecting white blossoms.

“Cherry blossoms?” he wondered. They certainly felt no less fragile, and like the tapestry, as out of place as the young man beneath the medieval robe. Nor had it escaped him that everything was neat, clean and orderly. Not how you’d expect to find the apartment of a 19 year old boy.

“Odd,” or so the disconnect appeared to him, becoming even more apparent when he peered down upon the street below. The contrast was inescapable. The maelstrom of poverty and crime had consumed everything in its path, yet somehow had bypass this kid and the tenement he lived in.

He found it all rather “suspect,” and then some, that much he felt sure, and if the kid wasn’t male with a clean shaven head and a solid alibi he’d already have him marked as the prime suspect in this case.

In the past he might have done so regardless. Act now and ask questions later. That had been Jack’s philosophy, but not anymore. He’d promised himself he wasn’t going to fall into that trap of rushing to judgment again. It was wrong, dead wrong, and no matter how much he hungered to nail this kid, Jack would resist the temptation. As far as he was concerned, if there was a case here to be made, it would definitely have to come to him.

“You’ve a very lovely apartment, I must say.” He again turned his attention to the boy.

“Thank you, detective.”

“Not like my place. Oh no,” he chuckled. “Shoot, I’ve had the same pots and dishes piled up in the sink for a week, and Rosco, my cat, sheds even worse than me,” he lowered his head and ran his hand over the bald spot on the back.

“You know, many a morning I wake up, look in the mirror and say to myself, ‘Darn, what I would give to have a full head of hair again.’ Then there’s you . . .” he made a bit of a face, “a young guy who could probably grow a head full of healthy shoulder length black hair near over night and what do you do? You shave your head. Funny world, ain’t it?”

“I’m a musician,” Michael replied while pointing to a guitar case sitting in the corner.

“Ah, then I guess that explains it. A musician! Well, you know, if we had never met up and I saw you on the street I think I could peg you as one. I mean, you look like you’ve got talent. You’ve the copyright looks too. Bet you’re quite the hit with the girls?”

Michael didn’t answer, but he did look off modestly. “Perhaps,” Jack took note, “with a tint of a blush?”

“Well, I’ll not bother you any longer. I just thought I’d stop by as a courtesy. We in the precinct pride ourselves in being good servants to the community and we want you to know we appreciate your support. Say . . .,” he suddenly piped up as if struck by a sudden revelation.

“Would you mind if I were to add your name of the list of those willing to donate to the Policemen’s Children’s fund? We like to remind the good citizens in the community a small measure of prevention serves us all in the long run.”

“No, not at all, detective.”

“Fine, fine, that’s quite a magnanimous gesture. I’m sure all the needy kiddies will be so happy to hear that. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he concluded, then reached out to take the boy’s hand, noticing his nicely manicured set of nails. Not long, but pampered well enough. Couple that with callous-free finger tips and it was easy enough to tell he had been wrapping those fingers around something, and it sure wasn’t the neck of a guitar.

He turned to leave then stopped and asked the question that was still on his mind. “Say, ahm, I forgot to ask. You didn’t by chance forget that you let your girlfriend borrow the car, did you?”

“No. You see, I have the only key right here,” he replied, and then picked up a set of keys from the nearby coffee table.

“Ah, so you do. Well then, other than being out some big bucks to repair the car I think you’re in pretty good shape.”

“No,” Michael seemed quite sure of himself, “no big expense. I had the left headlamp replaced before and it costs me next to nothing.”

“Huh,” Jack replied wondering how the boy could know that. “That’s alright, please don’t bother, I can find my own way out.”

A few moments later Jack was again outside. He dismissed the patrolmen, thanked them for their help then turned toward Cecil to ask the question that followed him like that haunting gaze of the man woven into the tapestry. “Well, what do you think?”

“What’s to wonder,” Cecil reasoned. He has a solid alibi. He’s not a girl with shoulder length black hair either.”

“Yeah, you’ve got that one nailed.” Jack agreed while disagreeing, knowing there had to be a tie. How else could the kid be so sure the repairs were going to cost him “next to nothing?” He hadn’t even seen the car. Or better yet, how could he know it was the left side that was damaged, not the right?

“Want to know what I think?” Jack asked.

“Sure do, Jack, what?”

“I think we should see who this kid plays with,” he replied, with the intensity and the tone of his voice suddenly ratcheted up a notch. “I’d like to know where he goes and does for the next week. I want you to sign out a surveillance van, park across the street over there and keep an eye on him. There isn’t a rear exit so it should be easy enough to cover. Meanwhile I’m going to see if Mrs. Donizetti can help me track down Sonya’s daughter. Although privately he felt whatever he found was going to lead him back to Michael’s door.
 
 
Scene IV: Arn Fife
 
 
The next morning Cecil returned to the office to draw up a surveillance plan as per department procedures. He presented his plan to the section chief and was assigned a case number, a vehicle and a partner from the Intelligence Gathering Unit. The chief then went on to explain the operational procedures.

“Your team will be required to report in with dispatch hourly. Plus a patrol car will be at your disposal should you require emergency assistance.” Then he read him the riot act. “If you return my van riddled with bullet holes, sonny boy, I’m going to plant my boot so far up your butt you’ll be coughing up leather.”

An hour later he drove to the department vehicle compound, signed out the van and met up with Arn Fife, the officer assigned to him. Arnold Fife, Arn for short, was a department veteran set for retirement in two weeks. The guy had spent the last 26 years of his life as a patrolman, having advanced to the grade of Sergeant for only one short stint. Not a particularly accomplished career for a gray haired, overfed, potted Irishman with an arthritic limp. Albeit one with the smell of cheap liquor on his breath who only by virtue of his longevity, just managed to hang on.

He knew the surveillance business though, and knew the operation of the van like the back of his hand.

“Now son, just take a deep breath, relax and let ol’Arn tell you how this thing here works.” he said as he wrapped an arm around Cecil’s shoulder. “You’re in good hands here, sonny,” he followed as he stepped into the back of the van, taking a seat next to a viewing portal.

“This here is the heart of the operation,” he followed, lighting up like a kid in a candy store. “From here you’ve got your telescopics, photographics and your long range listening devices. Over there you’ve got your closet where you’ll find your various disguise, wigs, mustaches and whatnot. Right here is your communications,” he pointed to radio sitting next to him.”

“You know how to operate all this stuff?” Cecil breathed in wonderment as he scanned the array of goodies.

“Oh yeah, buddy,” he affirmed. “Just point me the way and I’ll be wrappin’ it up for you in a nice little portfolio of 8x10 glosses before supper time.”

Yep, Arn knew the surveillance business alright. He had Cecil chock-full of confidence as he drove to the site while Arn played with his toys in back. Or at least that’s what Cecil thought was going on in back as he drove to the site, scoped it out, then settling on what he thought was the best possible spot. The place he chose was across the street from Michael’s second floor window and adjacent to his car now parked just outside the building.

“What’cha think, Arn,” he called out to grab Arn’s attention, “close enough to the target?”

He waited a moment then repeated his call before crawling into the back only to find Arn draped over the seat where he had left him, stone-cold out of it. Peeking out of his crinkled coat pocket he saw the bottle cap of his favorite brand of Irish whiskey. “Damn,” he hissed, wondering if after 28 years on the force it might all come to that for him as well.

He left Arn to sleep it off and crawled back into the front cab. There he sat trying not to look too conspicuous as he peered up at the second floor window. Without field glasses he couldn’t pick up all that much detail. Nor was his vantage point all that good. Still, he did have a perfect view of the front entrance which is all he really needed. Michael wouldn’t be leaving without him noticing.

Comparatively speaking, he found Michael’s tenement somewhat of an anomaly to say the least. Right smack dab in the middle of this urban wasteland the building stood out like an act of defiance. Its refurbished stone and burgundy colored millwork as daring as those potted yellow geraniums that lined the front stoop. How it managed to survive in a place like this was indeed a wonder.

For the most part he found the morning pretty uneventful, finding himself measuring his time by the hourly passing of the patrol car and his periodic contact with dispatch. Still the excitement, the adrenalin-rush and the sound of Arn snoring kept him pretty much on his toes and ready for anything when Michael finally did make his appearance. He wasn’t all that difficult to spot either.

Dressed in a pair of hip hugging white linen bell-bottoms and a flaming pink windbreaker he definitely looked the part. “Tall, thin and pretty for a boy,” he thought.

“Pretty? Hum,” well why not muse over the possibilities. Anyone would when confronted by a boy dressed in pink and white. Pair that with matching gold hoops in his ears, a set of lips that seemed to go on forever and you have one extraordinary young man. He wasn’t someone Cecil was going to pass by on the street and not stare, and wonder, even with his spit-shine head.

“Musician’s,” he muttered.

Anyway Michael stood for a moment with his arms folded staring at the damage to the left front lamp. He seemed to have his mind set on what need to be done. A moment later he jumped into the car, fiddled with the damaged ignition switch then set off with Cecil following a blocks distance behind to a repair shop on Kingston.

Cecil parked some distance away, behind a line of autos in various states of disrepair waiting to be serviced. With the shop apparently as busy as it looked, he wondered how the boy could possibly expect to get the work done in a week, let alone an afternoon. Yet he watched the boy telling this huge guy in greasy coveralls what he wanted to have happen and sure enough, the man grinning ear to ear nearly tripped on himself getting the car inside to begin work immediately.

Cecil looked up and saw the name “Dimitru Bros. Auto Repair” that fronted the building and wondered if he knew the man or whether Michael had offered to pay for his services in gold bullion. Whatever it was, an hour later the mechanic was backing that car out of the garage with 3 men still attached putting the finishing touches to the custom wax job that apparently came with the job.

“Da-damn,” he stammered in disbelief as he watched the guy hold open the door, beckon Michael to step in, then made sure he was comfortably situated before closing the door behind. A moment later he stood back and waved goodbye, flashing those pearly whites as if seeing his first born off to his first day at school. Behind him his three helpers followed suit. Beaming and waving their polishing rags high in the air, bidding him a farewell.

“Quite a guy that Michael,” he mulled over the scene that had just played out. “No fault in that. He knew what he wanted and made it happen.”

He couldn’t help but admire the kid. He had everything working for him and couldn’t help but wonder what Jack saw in him that drew his suspicion. If he was thinking this kid could be involved in the death of Sonya Pavel, a more unlikely character couldn’t have been found.

Still he had a job to do, which he did with all the expertise of a seasoned pro as he followed Michael home with Arn still snoring in the back. After watching Michael reenter his apartment he found a spot close to the one he had vacated earlier, and then crawled into the back to roust up a cup of coffee for Arn as he awaited the boys next move.

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Acknowledgement: I need thank Amber Talamasca for her contributions and Amelia French, for her support and guidance. I’d love to thank my editor as well, but I’m afraid my dear friend cs. is a bit too modest to accept the accolades so richly deserved.
 
 ©2009 by josie ©. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 
To Be Continued...

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The Legal Stuff: Murphy's Law: Book II - Red Harvest  © 2009 by josie.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

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Scene V: Mrs. Donizetti
 
 
The next morning Jack again went to see Mrs. Donizetti. Still early, she was dressed in her housecoat enjoying her morning coffee. Given her lack of preparedness, he worried she might think him rude for imposing at this hour. Though just as the day before, she greeted him with warm welcome and a syrupy smile that looked as sweet as the cherries she held in her hand. He returned her smile and with hat in hand asked if he might come in to finish the conversation they had begun the day before.

He found her to be a very open and personable woman, very easy to attach yourself to. Much like his dear mother, he supposed. She, like Marie Donizetti, was more or less an open book. There was nothing hidden beneath the veneer. Both women were supportive and faithful to both family and friends with strong attachments to their immigrant past, and the traditions and heritage they brought with them to this country.

He had strong ties to his mother. Which in large part might go a long way toward explaining why committing to relationships outside work and that which he had with his good friend Rosco, his cat, hadn’t panned out so well. That might also go a long way toward explaining the close connection between Marie Donizetti and Sonya Pavel. A woman who was herself still closely linked to the traditions and social workings so much a part of her past. Something Marie Donizetti couldn’t speak more highly about.

She poured him a cup of coffee then sat down beside him still latched on to those cherries. The tips of her fingers stained the same cherry red.

“Do you enjoy them?” he asked. “Cherries?” he then sought to clarify with a gesture toward her hands.

“Oh,” She looked down as if caught unaware she was still holding on to them. “One of my guilt pleasures,” she mused. “They are truly a divine fruit, don’t you think?”

“Yes ma’am, they are that. A bit early in the season for them though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the local harvest isn’t for another week or two. These I think are from down south. I saw them in the store last night. Plump, dark, sweet . . . well, you know, I just couldn’t pass them up.”

“Would you like one, Mr. Murphy,” she held out her hand.

“No, thank you, I don’t fancy them as I once did. As a boy, I could sniff them out from a hundred feet and you’d be hard pressed to get me out of here until I ate every last one of them, but not anymore.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“Don’t know exactly. Maybe too many bellyaches. I’ve heard they’re none too healthy for the raven and crow either. Ravenous birds both. You see, the pit has cyanide and can be quite deadly if you breach the pit.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.” She flushed as if afflicted by a tinge of guilt. “I guess in every little sin there is always a little disappointment and regret.”

“Huh!” Jack grumbled. “So they say,” he replied, thinking back to a time long ago when his mother had expressed the same sentiment.

“More coffee then, Mr. Murphy?”

“No, ma’am. As I’ve mentioned I’m here because I’m looking for anyone who might be able to help me find Sonya’s daughter, Michelle. It is important that she hear the unfortunate news from me before she stumbles upon it on her own.”

“That is very kind Mr. Murphy, but honestly, there were few who really know her all that well. For the most part her life revolved around her daughter and the small delicatessen where she worked. She was a cook, you know.” Marie Donizetti began reminiscing about her friend.

“Vlady told me she made some of the best Sarmale this side of Bucharest,” she carried on. “Sonya didn’t make a lot of money, but she paid her rent on time and had enough to make payments on an old upright Bechstein piano.”

“Vlady,” he asked, intrigued by the name that conjured up such interesting images. “Who’s Vlady?”

“Sanda Vladimirescu. Vlady was her pet name. Sonya met her at the delicatessen. She was a Doctor of Psychiatry back in Romania, a woman of great power and strength.”

“You don’t say.” he perked up. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of person you just bump into everyday, leastwise not at a delicatessen.”

“Well, it is a rather tight knit community and they did share so much in common, being fellow ex-patriots and all. They became close personal friends and with Michelle’s problems, it was a natural fit. Although . . .” Marie’s voice tailed off.

“What was that?” he urged.

“Nothing, it’s just that sometimes I got the impression that Vlady had more of a say in what happened in Sonya’s life than she had of her own.”

For some reason Marie’s composite picture of Sanda, or Vlady as she liked to call her, made him think about the picture he had taken from atop the bureau in Sonya’s bedroom. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the picture of Michelle and the unidentified woman and showed it to Marie.

“Is this her?” he asked as he again studied the tall, robust woman with broad shoulders and thick muscular limbs that would have looked as well on a man. She was dressed in a gray pencil skirt with matching blazer that looked rather stiff and regimented. With her black, Jack style knee boots and her silver gray hair formed into a bun, she looked the sort who could manager herself quite well. Not to mention the gaunt, anemic looking 16 year old standing as if at attention at her side.

“Yes, that’s Vlady. She’s well respected in her profession I’m told. She was once in charge of a large hospital in Romania, but she had to flee when the soviets wanted to purge the intelligentsia to strengthen their grip when many were looking west with hope for a new order.”

“Sonya must have felt quite fortunate.”

“Oh yes, and I can assure you she was quite good to Sonya and worked wonders with Michelle.”

“Did she visit often?”

“Yes, quite often. In fact she was such a frequent visitor I often wondered how Sonya could possibly afford the cost on her meager salary. I know I couldn’t.”

“Did you ask her?”

“I did. We had become great friends over the years. We had developed the trust and confidence in each others judgment to speak openly. Even about things we were taught as young girls to keep to ourselves.”

“Oh?” He queried, not quite following along.

“Yes, well, it’s not an American way of thinking, but in the old world girls are taught to quietly endure. So I know it wasn’t easy for her to admit to me Vlady did all of her work for free.”

“For free?” he sounded incredulous.”

“Yes, but it didn’t surprise me because that’s just the sort of person Vlady was. She was a generous woman with a heart of gold, not to mention very good at her profession.”

“Is that a fact,” Jack sounding not at all convinced. He didn’t share the same belief in the goodness of people that Marie apparently did. The way things worked in his world, one’s own self-interest was always the card kept hidden, tucked under a sleeve.

“Oh yes, I can assure you, Vlady was very generous and quite personable as well. As best as I can describe her, it was as if she were reborn anew each and every day just to share this moment with you.”

“Pardon ma’am, but if you don’t mind my saying, you sound as though you were a bit smitten by her spell as well.”

“Smitten by her spell?” she echoed his words. “Well I admit there was something uplifting about her. She seemed to rise above the everyday clamor. Effortlessly it seemed, always in complete control of everything around her. She had a compelling presence that much is sure.”

“It sounds as though Michelle was in very good hands.”

“Yes she was. When Vlady was present, she was the perfect child. She certainly had a lot of influence over her. Certainly more then Sonya or Milhaela had.”

“Who was Milhaela?” he cast a squint-eyed gaze.

“Mihaela Ceausescu.” Mary laughed, “Oh I know, it’s not the sort of name that just rolls off the tongue. I just called her Millie. She’s another ex-patriot and a close friend of Vlady’s. She and Vlady knew each other in Romania and worked together as a team very well.”

“That was Sonya’s saving grace actually, because she not only taught Michelle her daily lessons, but executed Vlady’s therapy program perfectly.”

“What exactly was Michelle’s problem?”

“Well,” Mrs. Donizetti followed after a deep sigh. “Sonya told me she suffered from an early childhood trauma, something about Michelle having a sense of abandonment.”

“It was a form of depression then?”

“I suppose. Sonya said that Michelle believed she had been abandoned when she was a small child, and because it happened in the night, she feared the dark. So as the moon began to rise, so would her state of unease. Of course her fears were only imaginary, but all quite real to her. By day’s end she’d become angry at the world, easily agitated and sometimes reduced to tears. Then she’d withdraw and become as sullen as the notes she’d sit down to play on the piano.”

“Of course she wasn’t always that way. It was only toward day’s end that she’d slip into the malaise. That’s when the poor girl seemed caught in the twilight struggling to remain in this world.”

“Sonya wasn’t able to cheer her up?” Jack attempted to lighten the mood. “You know, teach her to play Chop-Sticks instead of Isle of the Dead, or something?” Only the dear woman would have none of it.

“Of course, Mr. Murphy, what kind of mother would she be if she hadn’t? Like any caring mother she’d rock her on her lap to sooth her. Plus she had those special words Vlady had told her to use to calm her. Part of her therapy, you see.”

“Did it work?”

“When Vlady looked her in the eyes it did, most certainly. I think that’s why Vlady only visited in the night. To show her that not only dark thinks came out of the night.”

“She only visited at night?” He asked, sounding as astounded as he looked.

“Yes. I thought that was understood, Mr. Murphy?”

“No ma’am! In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of such a thing. They say just about everything happens in New York. Heck, I can get my shirts pressed at 3 in the morning, but doctor visits . . . Now that’s a first for me. Then again, a lot of what you’ve said has in one way or another broken new ground for me. I know I tend to be a bit cynical. Maybe it’s the nature of the job or maybe it’s just that I’ve seen a bit too much, but surely you must have found something odd about that as well.”

“No I didn’t, Mr. Murphy, none at all. Sonja needed help, Vlady provided it and I was happy she did.”

“How did she manage to pay for Mihaela’s services?”

“I honestly don’t know. Perhaps Vlady did since it was she who made the arrangements.”

“Well, there you go, Mrs. Donizetti!” Jack slapped his thigh.

“Excused me, Mr. Murphy?”

“You don’t see anything odd in that? She makes night visits for free and pays for Sonya’s child care too? That sounds like more than just a friendship to me.” He voiced his concern. All the while thinking the lists of possible suspected “intimates” was growing infinitely longer.

“Mrs. Donizetti, I don’t want you to take offense to what I am about to ask next, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. Did Vlady stay the night?”

“Sir!” she recoiled as if suffering a blow, “To whom have I been talking to all this while? Have I not sufficiently explained to you the kind of woman Sonya was?”

“Yes, ma’am, you have, and I do apologize. It’s just that I need to know how you can be so sure of that?”

“Because, Lieutenant Murphy. That front door sounds a buzzer whether opened from the inside or from without. I know exactly the time she departed each and every night.”

“So it does. Well again I apologize, but my intent wasn’t to besmirch anyone’s reputation. I am simply trying to find Michelle and it’s my job to leave no rock unturned.”

“Well I can assure you, sir, there was nothing more to it. Vlady was simply a generous woman who did what she did out of the goodness of her heart, nothing more.”

“So that’s it then. Michelle was simply depressed?”

“Depression can be a serious thing, Mr. Murphy, and I can assure you her condition was most debilitating.”

“Did Vlady eventually help Michelle overcome her problem?”

“Yes, but that only came about after she moved away to live with Vlady.”

“Don’t tell me!” Jack sounded off rather incredulously as he leaned back in his seat. “Yet another generous offer from the woman with a heart of gold.”

“Yes, Mr. Murphy, it was. Even I knew Sonya couldn’t provide the kind of help Michelle needn’t. Not on her own at least.”

“When was the last time you’ve spoken with Vlady or Mihaela?”

“Sadly, I’ve not heard from either since Michelle disappeared. Neither had Sonya, or so she said when I ask.”

“She disappeared? She ran away from Vlady?”

“No, that happened shortly after her return home. About a month later as I recall. She had been making plans to restart her life. Only it didn’t turn out that way. One day Sonya came home and found her gone. It was so sad, really. She had blossomed into such a beautiful young woman. You should have seen her. She was such a joy to behold.”

“Was a missing persons report filed?”

“Yes, Vlady personally assured me. Of course Michelle was 18 by then, a young adult. Still the police did look for her, but apparently she had just disappeared.”

“Huh! Well, the last I’ve heard the laws of physics hadn’t been suspended yet.”

“Excuse me, detective?” she seemed a bit puzzled by the connection.

“In this country folks don’t just disappear, ma’am. Tell me, is Vlady still practicing?”

“Practicing?” again, she seemed a little confused.

“Yes, you said she was a Doctor of Psychiatry. Is she still in practice?”

“Oh dear, well, I think you must have misunderstood. Yes, she was a doctor of some renown, but that was in Romania. She wasn’t licensed to practice in this country.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he flinched, blindsided by her statement.

“I certainly am not, sir,” she sounded off rather indignant. “She confessed as much to me when I asked if she might have a look at Mrs. Caruthers in apartment 3 who was struggling with the loss of her husband.”

“Damn,” he muttered. Until now, he was trying to temper his judgments, determined to not rush blindly into anything. After all, he had been down that road before and it hadn’t worked out so well. So anything short of finding the assailant standing over his victim with smoking gun still in hand, the case would definitely have to come to him. And so it had! Like a train bearing down on a collision course he could no longer avoid.

“I think I should have a talk with this Vlady. Do you know where I can find her?”

“No. Although I do know it’s a rural address because during cherry season she always brought me a basket of cherries. She said they came from a small orchard behind her home.”

“Just one more question, Mrs. Donizetti. You’ve made a point of telling me Sonya loved Michelle dearly. That would seem to discount the need for Michelle to hide away from her. So I need ask. Did you ever see Michelle hug Vlady?”

Mrs. Donizetti sat back in her chair. He could tell her mind was racing, though she said nothing, until after a long pause she lowered her head and simply whisper, “I don’t know.” Then again she looked up as if to plea, “I don’t think it was part of her treatment plan.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Donizetti.” He replied, knowing what he had to do next. “I will be back in touch when I find Michelle.”

“Good luck, Mr. Murphy,” the dear woman said with a tissue in hand to dry her eyes. He smiled and reassured her he’d find Michelle.
 
 
Scene VI: The Pink Flamingo
 
 
It wasn’t until 8 that evening that Michael again appeared with guitar case in hand heading for work. Cecil again followed with a sober Arn sitting beside him in the cab. Careful to keep his distance, they made their way up Claymore Boulevard to the newly refurbished and resurrected Fox Theater, now a club called the Pink Flamingo. The old art deco theater had been reconfigured into a strip club and for some odd reason had developed quite a reputation among the avant-garde and nouveau riche.

The place was packed most nights even though as far as strip clubs go the Pink Flamingo was rather tame. The club had its own private security as well. The security crew tolerated little in the way of unsavory behavior, and if you stepped out of line, their response was usually quick, concise and bordered on the barbaric. Needless to say, with violent crime near non-existent the police were happy to leave them to their own devises.

It was also a private club with a “By Invitation Only” door policy. Something Cecil discovered when he tried to follow Michael into the club. The 15 minutes he spent wrangling with the 6-3, 250 + pound doorman couldn’t get him in. Even a crisp new 20 slipped into his pocket failed to turn the trick. However, when he upped it a 100, he got a very abrupt and dire warning to “mind your P’s and Q’s” before finally being allowed inside.

“All that for what?” he asked himself. “Admission to a floor show lounge with a small crowd, a meager handful of so-so Flamingo Girls and where a bottle of water costs 5.00 plus another 5.00 tip for the girl to retrieve it?”

The disproportionate size of the small crowd to the cars in the parking lot was the first tip-off that the small floor show lounge he had been escorted into was not where the action was. Certainly nothing he saw was attractive enough to draw the fanfare that came with the place. The floor show wasn’t that hot either. Nor the band which was an all girl topless band wearing g-strings, heels and couldn’t play a lick.

Not that anyone seemed to care. Although Cecil did find it reassuring that Michael wasn’t among them. Fact is, Michael was nowhere to be seen. He also noticed that other than the security detail, everyone who worked there were women, including the bartender who with a scowl and an attitude read him the riot act when he asked for a refill. “Look, buddy, you know the house rules. You want something, ask the hostess.”

“Damn, it’s only water. For all the bucks I laid out to get in this place you’d think a guy would be entitled to a bit of personal service.”

“Oh, there yah go. You guys are all the same. It gets a bit crowded, things stack up a bit and you come out crying like babies that ain’t been fed.”

It was a stinging indictment, meant to put him in his place. That is, if you were to discount the fact that the crowd wasn’t all that large at all. Or, while her mouth was busy spewing her venom at him, she was facing away. Her eyes fixated on something he’d not notice before now. A hallway illuminated by a faint pink light located at the rear of the lounge. Cecil chose to follow her eyes.

“Yeah, well, I guess I’m sorry. I didn’t mean too . . .”

“Look, exercise a little patience,” she interrupted. “You know, everyone is trying their best.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll ask the hostess.” Cecil returned to the lounge then worked his way toward the rear of the room. He was dead certain that’s were the action was, and couldn’t wait to see what the acclaim was all about. Actually he was somewhat excited by the myriad of possibilities. So much so that in his rush to get in, he failed to noticed the pair of security guards rising up to block his entry.

“I.D.,” the nastier of the two asked and Cecil responded by pulling out his wallet to show his drivers license.

“Ah, no, sorry fella, I meant your club I.D.”

“Club I.D? I’m supposed to have a club I.D to get some personal service around here?”

“Look, Mister . . . Mister,” he pause to give the driver’s license a second look. “Bend-over!” he mockingly stressed the first syllable. “I would suggest you turn round, have a seat and watch the floor show. Pronto!”

He got the message. For some reason access to whatever was down that hall was being monitored rather tightly. He hadn’t the slightest idea as to why, but one thing was certain. He wasn’t going to be listening to Michael play guitar anytime soon. Not until he could figure a way to gain access to that room.

Cecil decided to call it a night and went out to talk it over with Arn. He wasn’t feeling all that pleased with what had just transpired. He not only didn’t know anymore than before, but they had fleeced him out of a hundred and fifty bucks.

He started to cross the street when he saw a cleaning van pull up and back in the alley that separated the Pink Flamingo from an abandon building next door. His curiosity getting the better of him he walked over to have a look.

The first thing he noticed was that it wasn’t an alley. Rather it was a delivery entrance that abruptly terminated midway between the front and rear of the building. The drive sloped down. That meant the side service door entrance was a story above, with a flight of steps leading down. At the bottom of the stairs was a trash bin full to overflowing. Again, as the amount of refuse would seem to indicate, there was a lot more going inside than what he had seen thus far.

He watched as two cleaning ladies dressed in white smocks exited the van. They gathered up their things then walked up the long flight and rang the buzzer. An inspection hatch in the door slid open and after presenting their identification they were allowed to enter. Through that opened door he again saw the same faint pink light.

Thankfully, he found Arn awake and sober working on a crossword puzzle. Arn was also in the midst of rattling off a few choice words because Cecil had failed to pluck a few pink feathers to bring back to his thoroughly disappointed partner.

“Ah, sorry Arn, there wasn’t all that much to look at, with or without the feathers. I didn’t see Michael or much of anything else for that matter. Apparently anything worth seeing is going on behind closed doors. What I’m trying to figure out is what’s at play here; Girls, drugs, gambling . . . singing and dancing parakeets who do a great Gene Kelly?”

Arn laughed in a way he’d not heard before. Like a man with a debilitating disease, but not yet defeated, still fought to throw his hat into the ring. “I wouldn’t place my bets on dancing parakeets. You know, it could be nothing at all. Maybe it’s just a private club for certain folks to share a common interest and want to hobnob in private.

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. It could be anyone. Artists, businessmen, immigrants . . .”

“Immigrants?” Cecil interrupted. “The folks I saw didn’t look like immigrants to me.”

“Sure they are, buddy. We all are. Take me for examine. I was born in Ireland and belong to the Shamrock Club.”

“I thought they shut that place down for distilling without a license?”

“The social club on 43rd and Pike, yeah, but you can never take the whiskey out of an Irishmen. We still distill our private stock.”

“That stuff will kill you Arn, if it doesn’t get you locked up first.”

“That’s why I wouldn’t bank much on your chances of escaping alive should you accidentally stumble in while we were mixing up a batch.”

“So you think that’s all there is to it?”

“Well now, I’m not saying there is and I’m not saying there isn’t. What I am saying is that above the name of the club on the marquee it says ‘Dimitru Brother’s Social Club. You did read that, right?”

“Dimitru? Where have I heard that name before? What is it, Polish?”

“Beats me. All I can tell you is the Irish aren’t the only folks big on that clan stuff. It would be as simple as that, or, as you say, it could be something worse. Only what’s it to you? You’re following this kid Michael Chapman, not Bulgarian mobsters, right?”

“Yeah, sure, but I can’t follow him if I can’t figure out a way to get inside that room.”

“Incognito!” Arn replied while eyeing the tray of disguises.

“A disguise isn’t what I need. I need a membership card,” he replied matter-of-factly. “They ain’t letting anyone in without one.”

“Those cleaning ladies have one.”

“Yeah they do, but in case you haven’t notice . . .”

“I have, and I’ve seen worse,” Arn curled up his lip into a wily smirk.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I worked a case with vise cop a year back. He was digging into a pimping operation over on 43rd, and to get on the inside he did it up to the nines. Now if you know Cliff Morgan you wouldn’t bank much on his pulling it off. I mean, it ain’t like he’s got all that much to work with, if you get my drift. Only Francine proved me wrong. One day in her hands and he came out pretty enough to kiss.”

“Who’s Francine?”

“A beauty expert,” Arn beamed. “The best in the city, and when she’s not too busy she donates her time to vice. She owns a beauty shop now. Only for years she was the toast of Broadway. Fact, inside her shop she’s got the walls lined with the autographed photos of all the famous actresses she’s worked with over the years. A real artiste she is, and I can look you square in the eye and tell you flat out, Francine Frangella could turn a ham sandwich into a grenade.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope, and the way I see it girlfriend, with your build, your looks, you’d make a dandy. What are you, 5-8, 135-140 pounds?”

“Close,” Cecil was a bit tentative talking about an issue that had become his Achilles’ heel since joining the force. In a more perfect world he would’ve liked to defend himself by adding he was actually pushing 5-9. A big difference to him, but fearing further ridicule from a guy who was himself over 6’, he chose instead to change the subject. “Yeah, well, that still don’t get me inside. A club membership, remember?”

“You’re not listening fathead. Those cleaning ladies have one.”

“You’re suggesting I impersonate one of them?”

“It crossed my mind, yeah.”

“Okay wise guy, so I do it. I show up, hit one of them on the head and snatch her ID. Clever!”

“Nah, nah, it don’t go down like that. Look, you just work on freshening up that pretty smile. Let me work it out with the cleaning lady.”

“What? Now just how do you plan on doing that?”

“Let’s just say I’ve got my connections.”

“You go to church and pray a lot, right?”

“Yes, well, a little divine intervention never hurt. Although, sometimes a neighbor lady with a bad case of the hots for me don’t hurt none either. I never paid her much mind before because she’s kinda thick and her English ain’t so good.”

“Oh lord, don’t tell me.”

“Yip, Olga just happens to work for the exact same cleaning company.”

“You sure?” Cecil asked, thinking it might be the remnants of the whiskey talking.

“Oh yeah, seen the truck parked outside. So, are you game?”

“You’re serious!”

“Dead serious!” Arn looked him in the eye. “I know I can hold up my end. The question is, do you have what it takes to grasp that brass ring?”
 
 
Scene VII: A Community of Ex-Patriots
 
 
The next morning Jack was back in the office to research the history of the names Mrs. Donizetti had mentioned. No criminal records had been found. He then searched for the missing person’s report that would have been filed when Michelle turned up missing. Again, he found nothing. Why no report had been filed piqued his interest, especially since Dr. “Vlady” Vladimirescu had said she filed it personally.

A quick search though the INS records confirmed the fact that Vlady wasn’t licensed to practice psychiatry in this country. She was however educated as such in Romania. Her application for asylum listed Bucharest as her last known address before leaving under fear of persecution by the Soviets. She was subsequently granted asylum in West Germany before immigrating to New York. Her current address was listed as River Road, Waterston, New Jersey.

Having found the information he needed he hopped into his car and headed for Waterston to have a talk with Vlady. The town was just a short hop across the George Washington Bridge, plus another hours ride though the Essex county countryside where small farms and orchards dotted the landscape. He followed the rural route until he located the mail box. He turned off on a narrow gravel road that lead to a two story brick home that fronted several acres of cherries round back. The address on the lamp post at the foot of the driveway indicated he had found the right address.

It’s was a big place, maybe 5-6 bedrooms with lattice windows and a large white portico that sheltered Adirondack chairs in the fashion reminiscent of an old country home. The home and the garden looked very well kept, as did the orchard around back. The kind of place he’d always dreamed about retiring to once he’d had his fill of the street wars.

He got out and walked around to get a sense of the place. The air cool and crisp, filled with the scent of cherries nearing the time of harvest. On the portico he found a bushel full of rolled up daily newspapers scattered about. A clear sign that no one had been at the home for weeks. Nevertheless he knocked and waited patiently for the response that never came.

He turned and walked back toward his car feeling somewhat disappointed, especially after all that Marie Donizetti had told him. Although, that would mean he’d have to return tomorrow, which on the whole really didn’t sound all that bad. He’d only been there 15 minutes and was already enamored with the place. The ride out and the house, nothing was as he expected.

Then there was that orchard and those old boyhood memories of the ocean of white blossoms and the snow-like pedals that covered the ground. A beauty that was disappointingly short-lived. Looking up he saw a scattering of raven and crow swooping down with abandon upon the red harvest. Ravenous birds to be sure, near blinded by their lust.

Much like himself as a boy he supposed. Swooping down on a bagful of the blood red fruit until the bellyache that had him wishing he hadn’t. Or, perhaps, as had happened in the Kline case. A matter in which he felt so sure of himself he had swooped down upon the boy dispassionately, near blinded by his lust to assign blame in the case. Only it turned out he had been wrong, leaving himself and his reputation no less battered than that poor kid, Gerald.

It was on that thought he spotted a man standing alongside a small ramshackle place about 100 yards away. He also noted that the man was watching his every move. “Well, why not?” he asked himself. “Inquisitive neighbors usually knew more about your business than they do there own.”

It turned out the man who was supposedly fixing a lawn mower and surreptitiously watching him was Yuri Saban, a tall, burly fellow with a thick Slavic accent. Yuri was the local Mr. Fixit who was usually first on everyone’s list to call whenever something need be done. The included “Doc Vlady,” as Yuri affectionately called her. It did however take some doing to get the rather standoffish fellow to admit to it, or anything else for that matter. Especially considering how reticent he was about speaking to anyone asking questions about the good doctor with the surname of Murphy.

“Good day, sir. I’m Jack Murphy.”

“Yuri Saban,” he replied, giving Jack the once over through a squint-eyed gaze. “Perhaps you can help me, sir. I need to know when Dr. Vladimirescu might be home.”

“Huh!” he grunted, “I don’t know,” he followed grudgingly, as if afraid he had already said too much.

“Look Mr. Saban, I’m here to notify Dr. Vladimirescu that an old and dear friend of hers has passed on and to deliver my condolence, that’s all.”

“Oh? Well, maybe you come back next week, okay?”

“Vlady and I are old and dear friend, you know. We do some important business together.” he lied, hopeful of winning his confidence.

“Oh? Sorry, Mister . . .”

“Murphy, but please, call me Jack.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Sorry I did not know,” his response punctuated with an apologetic smile. “Doc Vlady and Mihaela Ceausescu are in Germany. Business, you know.”

“Mihaela Ceausescu?” he asked himself. If his memory served him, she was the woman who looked after Michelle and Vlady’s close personal friend. “When will she be back?”

“Maybe you ask Egore Banica. No, no. You ask Arina Stanasila, okay.” He pointed the way to a house further down the road. “Maybe she knows.”

“Ah, well, actually I feel fortune to not find her at home. I don’t like having to pass on such sad news. Unfortunately it’ll be just as hard on Sonya, I’m afraid,” again he lied, hoping that one didn’t come back to bite him.

“Sonya,” he beamed, “you know Sonya . . . Sonya Pavel?”

“Yes, and Michelle, great friends both,” Jack smiled broadly, realizing the ploy had worked. “You know Michelle, right?”

Yuri leaned in and lit up with a thousand watt smile, his brows rocketing skyward like a pair of craggy mountain peaks.

“Yes! Mea surioară băiat!” he nudged Jack on the shoulder and made like a guppy. “Michelle everyone knows!”

“Surioară-băiat?” Jack enquired.

“Yes, how do you say? Girl, ahm . . . boy?”

“Girl? Boy?” Jack tried to stitch one and one together. The link seemed so incongruous that to escape him entirely. That is, unless due to his poor command of the language he needed help finding the right English word to describe her in terms of her gender. “Ah, that would be a young woman.” He smiled in response, “Or more precisely a very pretty young woman.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, my English,” Yuri replied, then just as suddenly clammed up. “Now I am busy, okay? I must ask you to leave,” he scowled, turned around and walked away. As did Jack still trying to figure out what had been said to cause him to stop talking.

He drove to the house that Yuri had pointed to. Along the way he slowed to a crawl to check the names on the mail boxes as he drove past, noticing they were all Slavic names. Dragos, Puscasu, Vladu, all Romanian’s,” he thought, “A little community of ex-patriots sharing like customs and a shared heritage that no doubt went back countless generations.”

Arina Stansila was also a part of that community. A woman in her 60’s with a scraggly hair or two sprouting out like weeds on a rather tried-and-tested, war-torn face. Nevertheless, while she might have looked battle worn, she was still up to testing Jack’s mettle, or so he soon found out.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Saban had suggested you might know when Vlady would be returning from Germany.”

Her answer was quick and concise, and if Jack’s foot hadn’t been wedged inside the door, it would have hit him in the face. “Mrs. Stansila, please, I need to ask Vlady where I might get in touch with a mutual friend,” he again lied.

Arina peered out from behind the door. “I’m just the housekeeper. Go away . . . please!”

“Yes, of course, but I must know when to return. Mr. Saban doesn’t know and neither does Sonya.”

“Sonya?” she eyed him suspiciously, but she did manage to open the door a bit wider.

“Yes Sonya Pavel. Do you know her?”

“Yes.” She replied, still eyeing him warily.

“Well, you see Michelle is missing and she thinks Michelle might have gone with Vlady.”

“No, the doctor travels with Mihaela Ceausescu.”

“Do you know where I might find her?” he followed, careful to not set off her rather short fuse.

“No!” she again replied, sounding somewhat bitter or frightened, though Jack couldn’t tell which.

“Can you tell me who might know? Yuri said she was very popular, everyone knew her.” He smiled as if knowing more than he did.

Arina managed a slight smile as if reflecting back upon some fond remembrance of the girl. “Yes, a very good child, Michelle,” then the corner of her lips turned down into a scowl. “Bah, Saban’s a fool. He talks too much. He thinks he can because he had privileges. He thinks I don’t know. Calm her! Phooey! I spit on him!”

“Yes, it is sad. I can’t trust Saban either. That’s why I need to speak with you. What I don’t understand is why she favors him so? He is a rather coarse man.” He followed with a hunch.

“Yes. He ate my Parjoale, did Vlady’s bidding then laughed and treated me like a fool.”

“I know, I don’t understand it either. I think Vlady always favored him.” He reached for the only logical follow-up to her statement.

“Yes, always. At the Institute I was head nurse, not Yuri. Yet Vlady gave him privileges there too. Phooey!” she made like she was spitting on the floor.

“Well, I need to find Michelle. Can you help me?” Suddenly her face tightened up and grew fiery red. “No!” she scowled again attempting to shut the door.

“Mrs. Stansila, please! Sonya has asked this of me.”

“No, go away. I’m just the housekeeper,” she manages to get out before succeeding in slamming the door in his face.

Egore Banica was no different. He was a gardener by trade, or at least he was now. Who knows what he might have been in his past life. Like the others he had spoken to, the guy might just as well have been a brain surgeon back in his homeland. Although somehow he doubted it. Not with the thickness of this guy’s brow ridge.

In fact, the term Neanderthal came to mind. That is, until the man opened his mouth and began to speak. It seems the man with a face like Frankenstein was as articulate as a Harvard scholar. He had perfect command of the English language. “How do you do, Mr. Murphy, it’s a pleasure.” Well now, that put a hitch in his caveman theory.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Banica. You speak English very well.”

Egore chuckled, “Yes, I studied to be an interpreter for 12 years, but the soviets had no use for a Romanian who understood the language better then they did. It didn’t fit into their plan, you see. They wanted an ignorant slave class and the intelligentsia didn’t fit in that picture. So I became an administrator.”

“You worked for Vlady?”

“Yes, proudly so, for many years,” he explained. “She was the very best you know. Where other facilities were turning out the worse of the worse, Vlady turned out productive workers who had much to contribute, year after year.”

“Yes, well, Yuri had suggested you might know when Vlady would be returning from Germany.”

“No. Why do you ask?” he enquired in a voice that suddenly took on a harder edge.

“Sonya has asked me to find Michelle. I’m a close personal friend,” again he lied, hoping for his lucky break. “I’ve heard you knew her quiet well.”

“Yes, though no better than others around here. Michelle was troubled and Vlady needed all the help she could get. I will admit to doing my part. I’ve always had a predilection for that sort of thing, you know,” he beamed a buffoonish grin, and then somewhat more soberly summed up his reply. “However, in answer to your question, no, I’ve not seen Michelle for quite some time.”

“Huh, well I wonder why Arina Stansila seems to think you might be ‘privileged’ with that information as well?”

“Arina said that?” his voice trembled.

“Yes, she was quite clear on that point as I recall,” he followed, hoping the jab might prod the canary into singing with a bit more specificity. Only his luck ran out.

“That bitch! Then abruptly he turned cold and angry, wanting nothing more to do with the conversation. “I have work to do! I must ask you to leave, immediately!” Then just like the others he had spoken to, he entered the house and let the door slam with a bang.

“Had I pushed too far?” he wondered. “Had Egore seen through the pretense? Then too, what was the secret that hung over the heads of these people they fought so fiercely to protect?”

He had heard of this sort of thing before. Ex-patriots sharing like customs and a shared heritage, grouping together to preserve, and if need be, fight for what was theirs. Such groups or clans were numerous in large cities, the immigrant neighborhoods in the greater New York area being a prime example. Although he had never seen one with a hierarchy that disseminated “privileges” like this one did. That is, except in the underworld where chieftains ruled with an iron fist, expecting blind obedience. Punishing those who didn’t and rewarding those who did.

Which to our keen-eyed detective begged the question, “If there was something more uniting this community other than a usual Sunday bazaar and annual Goulash eating contest what was it?” Though more importantly, “who disseminated those rights and privileges, and what role did Doc Vlady and Michelle play in all this?”

All questions he knew he’d have to find an answer to before he’d be able to pierce though the veil of secrecy to find Michelle. He would come back tomorrow. There was a lot here he needed to understand about these people. Not to mention Vlady, the woman who fraudulently passed herself off as a doctor, and wield her personage around like some medieval shield and spear.

Then there was this place. There was something about it that called out to him. He could feel it in the air ripe with temptation for that lush red fruit, and he could hear it in the regretful caw of those raven and crow.
 
 
Scene VIII: What are the chances of that?
 
 
It was midday when Cecil first spotted the girl through the window. He had been watching her for the better than an hour, using field glasses through the viewing port in the back of the van. He only got a periodic glimpse of her, coming and going in and out of view. It wasn’t the best angle considering he was parked a story below. Plus the white lace curtains stood between. A thin veil to be sure, but coupled with the odd angle, the best he could make out was her platinum hair, bare shoulders and he guessed a 36b cup bra. No, make that a little “c,” he mulled over the thought wanting to get that particular point just right.

A small point, but unable to see much else he followed those dancing, high-rise beauties around like a hawk zeroing in on his pray. “Huh,” he told himself, “I could think of worse assignments.”

It was at that moment he heard Arn returning from his mission. He had been gone the last 3 hours securing the cooperation of his lady friend. The lady living next door who worked for the Tepes Cleaning Company.

“Got it covered, buddy! Arn confirmed as he stepped in. “It wasn’t pretty though,” he followed with a huff, still a bit out of breath.

“It wasn’t?” Cecil looked on amused.

“Nope! On a scale of 1 to 10 I’d put it just under putting a pistol to your head and pulling the trigger.”

“Oh yeah? She sounds tough. What’d it cost you?”

“Don’t ask. Let’s just say the next time you need some plumbing done, don’t call a Romanian to clean out your pipes. Or at least not one with the lungs of a sump pump.”

“. . . and if that isn’t onerous enough for you,” he followed while pulling back his collar to expose a bright red oval abrasion on his neck, “Yep, fangs!”

“Wow! That’s some hickey,” Cecil marveled, peering in close. “So you’re saying this vampire is going to surrender her ID and let me go in her place?”

“Yep! I guess some women just find my Irish blood too irresistible to resist.”

“Maybe you ought to mention that to your wife.”

“Nah, I ain’t got that much blood to give.” Arn hooked his finger under his lip and pulled his mouth along as if he were a fish on a hook.

“So where is it, the I.D.?”

“I already handed it over to Francine for you.”

“You didn’t?”

“I did. She’s got to slap your picture over top. I told her to add a little extra dip to your do while she’s at it.” He smirked then blew Cecil a kiss. “Keep in mind though, we’ve only got 3 days, start to finish. If we don’t return her ID by then, we’ll both be praying for a ‘do-over’ button. Oh, and by the way, Francine will be by in a few minutes to pick you up.”

“She’s coming here to pick me up?”

“Yep, she volunteered. She said she wanted to cut off all avenues of escape. She sounded pretty hungry too.”

“Don’t tell me, another vampire?”

“Nope! More like a shark who ain’t had fresh meat in a week.”

“Aaah, sorry to disappoint, Arn, but . . .”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Arn cut in. “Don’t ‘but’ me. I’m not giving up my blood to that Transylvanian vampire just because you suddenly turn up with a hitch in your giddy-up.”

“Can’t, Arn, I’m staking out a babe in Michael’s apartment.”

“Yeah, who is it?”

“Who is it? How am I supposed to know?”

“Move over, let me have a look.” Arn snatched the glasses out of Cecil’s hand.

“Holy smoke! Well you’ve got to hand it to the guy. That’s one fine looking young lady. You think that’s the girl Jack’s looking for, the girl who was driving Michael’s car?”

“Could be, but her hair doesn’t match the description.”

“Where did she come from?”

“I don’t know. I checked the tenant list, but she doesn’t fit the description of anyone on the list.”

“No single young females?” Arn asked.

“No, all the tenants are elderly except Michael. They all have these strange foreign names too. The only woman is a Sveta Vladich. Only that girl in Michael’s apartment doesn’t look 68 years old to me. I guess she must have slipped in last night.”

“Hey, not on my watch, sonny boy”

“I was only gone 3 hours, Arn.”

“Well, there you have it. What are the chances of that?”

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Acknowledgement: I need thank Amber Talamasca for her contributions and Amelia French, for her support and guidance. I’d love to thank my editor as well, but I’m afraid my dear friend cs. is a bit too modest to accept the accolades so richly deserved.
 
 ©2009 by josie ©. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 
To Be Continued...

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The Legal Stuff: Murphy's Law: Book II - Red Harvest  © 2009 by josie.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

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Scene IX: Professor Rutherford
 
 
Jack walked up the steps of Lindquist Hall. He was on his way to an appointment with Dr. Carl Rutherford, a specialist in Eastern European Studies at NYU. Alongside him, a hurried crowd of young men and women dressed up in the new-age uniform of the day. Sandaled vagabonds dressed none too flatteringly with hair that required a second look to single out the girls from the boys. All filled with the hope and the promise that would one day be replaced by disappointment when faced with the reality of how the real world worked. “They’ll learn,” he smirked like a cynical man who’d long since lost the optimistic spirit of youth.

Then he spotted a vision bouncing down the steps, her golden blonde ponytail arched high, like a prancing young filly on promenade. He looked favorably upon the fullness of her pink and white gingham dress. The eagerness painted on her parted, red stained lips. Her fresh, rose-pink complexion and that whiff of teen spirit that could bring even the most cynical to his knees. Yes, he looked upon her fondly. Wanting nothing more than to overcome his doubts if only for a moment just so he could embrace that optimistic spirit of youth again. Hopefully, before “she” escaped him entirely.

Jack walked down the cavernous halls of the south wing of the building, his echoed footsteps announcing his arrival before he had even located room 301. He found Dr. Rutherford perusing some documents and lighting up his pipe as he stepped into his office. A short, full bearded man in his mid 60’s, he was a well respected scholar who knew everything there was to know in his chosen area of expertise, perhaps better than anyone in the country.

Jack handed him the picture of Dr. Sanda Vladimirescu then went over all he knew about her and that clandestine group of ex-patriot Romanians living just outside Waterston.

“So you’ve an interest in finding out if they share a common background, is that it?” he asked with a rather raspy voice, again repacking his pipe.

“Yes, and I’d like someone to explain to me what it is that brings this particular group together.”

“Well, for the most part, many of those who’ve fled the Soviet Bloc have managed to do so through East Germany. Most, though not all, with help from outside groups who have the muscle and the money to arrange it. Many humanitarian, religious and political groups play a large role in this. Identifying and locating the records of those individuals is a relatively simple matter in which I will be able to assist you.” He replied then discretely coughed into the palm of his hand. It was the sign of a man who’d been savoring the taste of fine tobacco for a dangerously long period of time.

“However,” he continued after clearing his throat, “organized crime plays a role in this process as well. Not for altruistic reasons unfortunately, but to seed criminal ventures throughout the world, the United States ranking high on that list. There are no records or documentation on these individuals, so if that is what you hope to find I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Now in answer to your question, Detective. Romania, like many East European bloc countries are basically ethnic states with Soviet influence currently superimposed on top. Primarily due to geographic location, the area has come under the influence of many peoples and forms of governance throughout the centuries, but throughout it has been regional ethnicity and cultural ties that remains the binding force.”

“Of course governance from the outside most often meant rule with an iron fist. Thus many of these groups were driven underground to avoid brutal repression, and sometimes worse. That would be the state of things today, a period of totalitarian rule where hundreds of thousands are being persecuted. Some imprisoned, some murdered, some committed to asylums, their children forced into institutional orphanages where they are warehoused by the state and abuse is common place.

“As a result, these secret societies are now stronger than ever. With help from the outside, many have managed to flee, yet remain united by their shared ethnicity, customs and culture that date back centuries. No doubt that’s the same common ground that unites your group as well.”

“Yes, but Arina Stansila spoke of ‘privileges’ which to me implies a hierarchy and their secretiveness tells me they have something more important to protect than simply cultural identity.”

“Well, as I said, not all these groups work for the good. The conditions are such that it also provides a perfect breeding ground for the unsavory to flourish as well.”

“You’re suggesting syndicated crime?”

“Yes, more or less, though I’m afraid I can only provide limited help in that regard. Still, a bit of research might shed a few clues,” he labored to explain, his raspy voice tailing off as he again studied the picture of Dr. Vladimirescu.

“Take this photo for instance,” he followed. “Those are Striped Maples in the background. They’re indigenous to this region, so that tells me it was taken here. Likewise, the girl is fashionably dressed. That tells me she has integrated nicely into her new life in the U.S. as well. Yet Dr. Vladimirescu looks as if she’s still a civil servant employed by the State, a high ranking civil servant at that.”

“Is that a fact,” Jack broke in then came around to look for himself.

“Oh yes. You see, in Romania dress styles tend to be rather regimented. Especially for those who work for the State. The cut of the lapel, the length and style of the skirt, even the color is often prescribed. You might think of it as a sort of populous uniform if you will.”

“Ah-ha,” Jack mutters, perusing the details pointed out, “but how can you tell she’s a woman of high rank?”

“Quite simply. You’ll note the high buttoned collar and the decorative tie. That style only comes with status.”

“There’s something else of interest I’ve found in this photo. You’ll note the ring on her right index finger. That would be looked upon quite suspiciously in current day Romania, so I assume it is something she started wearing since immigrating to the west. I find it odd she’d feel the need to dress as if she were still working for the politburo down to the style of her boots, yet wear such a ring. Not a wedding ring, but a large and conspicuous ring on the wrong hand and on the wrong finger. I find that rather incongruent. Very much out of character it would seem to me.”

“You’ve a sharp eye doc,” Jack replied, leaning closer in to make out what he could. “It looks almost like a fraternity ring with a red stone.”

“Whatever it is I suspect it’ll require closer examination. May I keep this? I’d like to have a copy enlarged.”

“No problem, doc.”

“There are other things we need consider as well. For instance, let’s consider her name for a moment. Vladimirescu is a family name with Transylvanian origins. Specifically Vlachian, and when coupled with Sanda, it makes for a very unique name. You see, the derivation of the name Sanda is ‘Defender of the people.’ It is rarely given, usually reserved for those who once occupied a status of great strength and power.”

“Great strength and power,” Jack straightened back up. “I’ve heard those words used to describe her before. Mrs. Donizetti, I believe.”

“Indeed! Well, given her last name I’d venture to say this woman belonged to a very old and established Vlachian Transylvanian community. The same with the name Mihaela Ceausescu, though in her case, her name has Moldavian origins, long standing allies with the Vlach. Likewise, Mihaela is not a common household name. It means ‘like a god.’”

“Yeah, so. She was a nursemaid for the kid, not some deity standing atop Mount Olympus.”

“Yes, that much I am certain, at least that’s how we see them in the here and now. Although you must remember, the family lineage goes back centuries and the same ethic, cultural and social allegiances that bound them then, may well be the allegiances that bind them today.”

“So you think you’ve something to work with here, professor?”

“Yes, I think so. It should prove interesting, though I can’t promise I’ll find what you need. Still, with a little luck I might be able to solve some of the mystery.”

“How long, Dr. Rutherford?”

“Hum, well, give me a week or two to see what comes up.”

“Ah, sorry doc, no can do. I’m in the law business where time might mean lives.”

“When do you need it?”

“Yesterday!”

“Mr. Murphy, I don’t think you need a political Scientist from NYU. What you need is divine intervention.”

“Sorry doc, don’t have the time for that either. Besides I’ve tried and I keep getting a busy signal.”

“Yeah, okay, call me Friday afternoon and I’ll give you what I’ve found.” Jack slipped on his fedora, shook his hand and told him he would be in touch.

“Say doc, you know you ought to be thinking about lightening up on that pipe. Else wise you might be looking for a bit of that divine intervention yourself.” Carl Rutherford lowered his head and averted his gaze like a guilty man on this way to the gallows. “Already tried, but unfortunately I keep getting a busy signal.”

“Touché!” Jack nodded with a tip of his hat. It was meant in the way of a compliant, of course. After all, he was grateful for the man’s help, though privately he wondered whether anything useful will come of the visit. He rather doubted it.

He started to leave wondering whether he would have had better luck with Madam Caruso and her crystal ball when the professor’s raspy voice again pierced his thoughts.

“You know, all this sort of reminds me of a very old and obscure Vlachian text I once read. More folklore than a historical narrative actually, but it did mention an old creed that somehow comes to mind.”

“Huh!” Jack grunted. “Yeah, so, what’s that got to do with Dr. Vladimirescu?”

“I’m not sure exactly. It’s probably nothing.” He replied, though it was evident his words were wholly disassociated with his thoughts. “Well then I’ll be in touch.”
 
 
Scene X: Pretty from Head to Toe
 
 
Francine Frangella escorted the already visibly shaken Cecil into her “Pretty from Head to Toe” salon. By now the place had taken on almost mythical proportions in his mind’s eye, and it didn’t disappoint. The room styled in a French boudoir motif had lush burgundy-red velour furnishings, brass fittings and mirrored throughout. The air was rich with the sweet smells of perfume and along the walls hung framed autographed portraits of the most notable actresses of the era.

One photo in particular caught his eye. Engraved on the wall above the front desk it read, “Transformation that will obscure the lines beyond your imagination.” Below it, an autographed picture of Jane Mansfield posed in a provocative scarlet-pink swimsuit.

All the pomp and pageantry seemed a bit rich for our disheveled rookie. The tell-tale signs could be heard in the knock of his knees, read on his shell-shocked face. Although you couldn’t say the same for the elegant creature sporting a rather mischievous smile who greeted them at the front desk.

Tall and sumptuous, she wore a red sequin off the shoulder pencil dress that hugged her hips like honey on a spoon. While on top of her head she wore a beehive bouffant which she seemed prone to want to balance upright as if fearing it might fall off should she happen to look down. “Francine, darling, come, come, let me have a look at this lovely thing you’re escorting.” She broadcast loud and clear. He looked around and saw every eye in the place riveted on him.

“Marge, this is Cecil. Cecil, this is Marge,” she naughtily smirked.

“Cecil is my effeminate friend in much need of a makeover. So I thought to myself who better to do it than Ms. June. Is she ready to spin her magic?” she asked, again with that mischievous smile.

“Yes, of course. If you’ll escort this lovely thing I’ll get you situated and Madam Magnifique can begin to work her miracles.”

“Caroline!” Ms. June’s unassailable voice entered the mix. “Quickly,” she snapped her fingers, “I want two holes punched in both ears, and Marilyn, he’s yours first. I want a complete defoliant job, and . . .” she leaned in to whisper in her ear, “be sure to use the industrial strength grade paste.” Marilyn giggled as she escorted him through a door to the right.

An hour later his sat in a styling chair in the main lounge. His skin a fiery red, his eyes were closed, his body taut seemingly detached from himself while a cadre of specialty artisans working on every aspect of him. The manicurist, pedicurist and cosmetologist giggled and fastidiously pampered and toyed with his nails and his face with practiced hands. While Ms. June busily prepared the landing strip for the gorgeous “golden blonde do” she planned to cement to the top of his newly shorn, spit-shinned head.

“Not to worry, you sweet thing, I’m using only the finest grade glue.” She smirked as an assistant was busy centering the appliances to his chest with the same fine grade glue. “It’s brand new. A compound developed by the space agency. You know, Sputnik and all that. Guaranteed to withstand the winds of Jupiter, or so I’m told.”

Francine sat in a chair close by watching the product of her innovative thinking take form. His lips burned a cherry red. His brows spread like wind-swept wings over hazel-green eyes that pierced through the shadowy hollows of black kohl and violet. Add to that picture nails of a viper and the most gloriously wavy blond hair and you have a picture of a cleaning woman on hyper-drive. Especially when you consider it was all wrapped up in a pretty little package that flaunted a pair of 42d cups that weren’t going anywhere.

“I assume you’ll be taking, Cecil, err, Cecilia next door when we are through,” Ms. June asked Francine, looking up for her work.

“Yes, we’ve an appointment at 5 o’clock. I’ve my eye on a particular set of pumps and a Pink Flamingo number that’ll land her on a casting couch in a heartbeat.”

“Face down, I’m sure,” replied Ms. June and giggles spring up from all within ear shot.

“A cleaning lady, right?” Caroline enquired as she attached the long strand earrings in place.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll be going some cleaning alright.” She puckered up and made a giant sucking sound. “We’ll just slap a smock and cap over top to her get her in. Once inside, all the rest is for her to enjoy.”

By 7 P.M. Francine was walking back to her car, while following behind Cecilia struggled to keep pace in those impossible 4” heels. “Yes darling, that is definitely you. Now don’t you go worrying you pretty little head about the expense. I understand Captain Turner is covering the whole cost personally. He said something about owing you a favor and you can consider it a debt repaid.” She beamed a bright smile. “So you just run along, have a good time and I’ll see you in about 6 months. Hopefully that glue will have given up the ghost by then. Although don’t hold me to that,” she chuckled.

Poor Cecil, err, Cecilia, her cheeks where already mussed with watery streaks of black kohl and violet.
 
 
Scene XI: The Girl in the Window
 
 
Jack drove past the surveillance van parked across the street from Michael’s apartment. Not wanted to give the location away, he parked a block further down then slipped on a pair of sunglasses and an overcoat before making his way back. He opened the unlocked side door and found Arn Fife with field glasses in hand and his nose pressed up to the viewing portal.

“Ssssh, quiet Cecil,” Arn whispered with his magnified-eyes glued to the window. “I think I’m on to something big, kid.”

Jack had met Arn before. He was the guy who always drunk himself into a stupor at the Policemen’s Ball, year after year. He had never worked with him, but more than once he had offered to drive him home. There he’d give the front door to his house a decent pounding for 30 minutes, sometimes longer, before his wife would eventually relent and open the door.

It was always the same scene. He’d somehow manage to drag Arn inside, the whole while kicking and screamed, “No, no, please. Lock me up for the night. Shoot me, anything I don’t care. Just don’t leave me alone with her.” He did none of the above of course, but he did manage to disarm that tough-as-nails, Jack booted, German Howitzer with a 12 inch skillet clutched in her hand before leaving. Not that it did much good. Two steps out the door and the clank of yet another skillet rang out across the yard. Poor slob, and folks wondered why he drank.

“It’s Jack, Arn, not Cecil.” Startled, Arn jumped out of his seat and landed on the floor. “Damn, Lieutenant, you scared the piss out of me.”

“Huh, well perhaps next time I’ll knock first and ask if anyone is home.”

“Ah, sorry, sir, I was just observing the activities in the Chapman residence and I guess I was a bit engrossed in my work.”

“Arn please, the name is, Jack.”

“Got’cha, Jack. I guess first names are only fittin’ since you seen me take a lickin’ or two.”

“Sweet wife you got there, Arn. I got to admire her tenacity. She’s got more bite than a Pit-Bull.”

“Well, it ain’t like I don’t have a ‘Beware of’ sign posted on the chain link fence.” Arn laughed.

“So what’s got you so engrossed my friend? You catch him necking with his boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend? Lieutenant . . ., I mean, Jack, you’ve got this kid all wrong.”

“Surprise, I can usually spot them a country mile away.”

“Well, have a look for yourself. His got his sweetie up there prancing around in her underlies like she’s practicing for one of them strip tease shows. Fact, just before you came in the bra was coming off next.”

“You don’t say? Mind if I have a look.”

“Aaaah, no, course not,” Arn stammered, realizing he was being asked to give up his seat in the first row. Reluctantly he handed him the glasses with a grimace as Jack took up the vacated seat then peered out zeroing in on the vision dancing behind that thin veil of curtains.

“Who is she?” Jack asked, wondering if this was the girl Mr. Turley had seen driving Michael’s car.

“Don’t know. We thought you might.”

“I can’t really tell. She’s standing too far back from the window and with the curtain between I’m not getting much definition. Personally I can’t see what you’re so excited about, Arn. You can’t really see a darn thing.”

“You just got to learn to fill in the missing gaps, Jack. From the way you be rememberin’ it.”

Jack looked up, shaking his head, “Old memories, Arn?”

“Old, but believe me, those kinds of memories you take to your grave.”

“Well, you probably won’t get much, but I’d like you to try and get some pictures to show, Mr. Turley. Meanwhile, now that we’ve got her, I think we should pay them a visit.”

“You’re going up there?”

“I’ll wait until Cecil gets back, but yeah, I am.” Jack replied as he returned to watching the scene play out.

“You know, you could send me.” Arn followed.

“I would but I’m afraid you might not come back.”

“Are you beginning to fill in some of them missing gaps yet, Jack?” Arn asked while whipping the corners of his mouth with a hanky.

“Huh, musicians, go figure. I guess I had the kid figured all wrong,” Jack replied, sounding a little disappointed for having misjudged the kid.

“Are you done, Jack?” Arn could scarcely draw in his hanging tongue.

“Yeah, go for it,” Jack replied, handing him the glasses.

Arn snatched the glasses and jumped in. “Ah, now that’s the way I like them, cute and perky. You know what they say, more than a handful,” Arn glanced back and grinned like a cat licking milk from its whiskers.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jack followed only half listening and too mad at himself to even care.

How could he have been so mistaken about Michael? Just because his hands were smooth, his nails well kept and he had effeminate mannerisms didn’t make him gay. Nor had he asked Michael specifically if he played guitar. He had just made the assumption based on his having pointed to the guitar case. It might not have even been his. Perhaps he had just pointed to it because it was there, as a handy point of reference. For all he knew, he might have played the Triangle or a Tambourine.

It was a serious misjudgment, coming after he had promised himself he’d not fall into that trap again. Passing judgment on others based on one’s own biases, prejudices and beliefs was dangerous and wrong. There’s no place in police work for someone like that. Especially someone with the temerity of “Spike,” that rash, reckless, audacious voice inside to which he still remained a victim. No less so than were the crows, blinded as they were by their ravenous lust.

“So, where’s Cecil?”

“Ah, he’s making preparations to follow the kid into the club tonight. He says he needs to see what’s going on inside.” Arn followed, still absorbed with whatever was going on behind that curtained window.

“What sort of preparation? Is he buying a new suit, or something?”

“Ah, yeah, it’s something like that. He said he’s got to conform to the dress code.”

“Well la-de-da. First assignment and Mr. Fancy-pants is already putting on the Ritz. Good for him, shows character.”

“Yeah, well, I reckon them new pants are going to be pretty fancy, and plenty la-de-da, that’s for sure.” Arn replied. His eye still glued to the scene playing out in Michael’s apartment and still only half listening.

“So when do you expect him back?”

“Soon, Jack,” was all he managed to get out between the ooo’s and aaah’s.

“I’m going out to get me a burger. You want anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” again seemingly too preoccupied to response.

“Don’t forget, if she leaves while I’m gone I want all the photos you can shoot, got it?”

The trip to the Fast Freddie Burger took a bit longer than he expected. So he brought one back for Arn in case he’d changed his mind. He was making his way back to the van when he saw the unidentified girl who had been in Michael’s apartment walking out the front entrance of the tenement. She was wearing a hooded fluorescent pink windbreaker, a white knee length pleated skirt and low-top tennis’ without socks.

“She certainly fits the bill alright,” he thought as he watched her standing at the curb waiting for the opportunity to dash across the street between the passing cars.

Jack backed into an alcove nearby and watched as three of the local unemployables sitting on the tenement steps next door jump up and rushed to her aid. Actually street thugs with gangland tattooed all over them would have been more like it. Although he would’ve been hard pressed to prove that in a court of law the way they jumped out into the street, stopped the oncoming traffic and escorted her to the other side. And what was their reward for behaving so gentlemanly? A smile and a wave as they backed away genuflecting as if praying to Mecca.

“Huh!” he grumbled. “Talk about parting the Red Sea,” he thought as he watched her walk into the cleaners nearby.

“What is it about this girl and Michael and the tenement he lived in that commanded such reverence and respect from these people?” He would’ve though the girl, like Michael would have been run out of the neighborhood long ago fearing for their lives. “Yet here they roamed unmolested, free of worry, as if the building was some holy Greek temple.”

Well, he wasn’t so sure about that ‘holy temple’ business. Narcotics, prostitution, gangland affiliation sounded more like it. Whatever it was, even a blind man could tell Michael was part of something with a long and powerful reach. Something that could reach down into this neighborhood and hold sway even over groups with roots so vast even the police couldn’t weed them out. One thing was certain. The girl was pretty, but even he couldn’t garner that kind of respect without a hammer that could squash them like bugs.

On a hunch he decided to follow her in. Why not? They had never met. Besides, with the overcoat and dark sunglasses no one was going to recognize him regardless. When he got there he stood in the line awaiting service from the clerk, two customers behind the unidentified girl.

He watched as the clerk took possession of her pickup receipt then brought back her freshly laundered clothes. He placed her receipt in a wire basket next to the register, rang up the sale then thanked her in his broken English before she turned to leave. Unfortunately she was looking away as she passed, but on the upper right shoulder of her pink windbreaker he saw a stenciled picture of a pink flamingo and “Tatiana” written beneath.

His eyes followed her as she again crossed the street and into the Michael’s tenement only to find he was next in line to be served. “Receipt Please,” the smiling Korean held out his hand.

“Ah, sorry, I must have left it at home. My name is John Smith.”

“Okay,” he replied in his rather abbreviated English. While the clerk was in back looking, Jack reached into the basket and pulled out the receipt. The name read, “T. Darcos,” in very legible script. However, the address below read: “6230 Cl . . .,” followed by some scribble. Her name was written in pen, her address in pencil. Obviously it had been written by two different people. One who knew how to spell Dracos, the other by someone who hadn’t a clue how to spell whatever the street name was.

It was a small local business so he felt it safe to assume the street would be in the general area. “No find clothes, Mister,” the clerk shrugged with a pleading look as if praying that would be the end of it, and thankfully it was.

“Oh, sorry, I must be the wrong cleaners,” Jack bid his good-bye and hurried back to the Van.

“Did you get it, Arn?”

“Sure did,” he beamed while holding up the Nikon with a telescopic lens. “36 shots, and with this lens you’ll be able to spot the color of her eyes.”

“Perfect! How long before you can get them developed?”

“Well, I can have the patrol car meet me at the corner to pick them up. The lab should be able to wrap it up in about 90 minutes, perhaps less.”

“Great, you got a map?” Arn dug out a map from the front cab and waited while Jack searched for the street. He found only two streets nearby beginning with “Cl.” One was Clement, the other was Claymore farther away and thus not likely.

“Got it! Okay, here’s the deal. When Cecil gets back show him the pictures and tell him the target has changed. Instead I want him to focus on this girl. Her name is Tatiana Darcos. Her address is 6230 Clement and she works at the Pink Flamingo. The same thing applies. Follow her. I want to know everything about her.

“Got it, Jack.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I’ve got business in New Jersey to attend to.”
 
 
Scene XII: An Ode to a Vampire
 
 
It was late evening Moscow time, 8 A.M. New York time when the final faxed transmission lay sprawled out over Dr. Rutherford’s desk. Knee deep in documents, he had been at it non-stop for the past 23 hours and he looked it. He was on his 8th cup of black coffee and his office reek of Timberland tobacco. He looked up at the clock then sat down and picked up the phone to call the receiving desk. “Morning Martha, it’s Professor Rutherford again.”

“Yes, yes, a very long night. Tell me, has that text I requested from Dr. Caruthers at Columbia University arrived yet? Sure, I’ll hold.” Carl tucked the phone under his chin and managed to unzipped yet another pouch of tobacco before Martha White again came on line. “It is? Finally!” He sighed, “Thanks Mrs. White, you’re a lifesaver. I’ll be right over.”

An hour later Jack received a call from an excited Carl Rutherford. After hanging up he hurriedly dropped what he was doing then dashed off to the University. Carl hadn’t said what he found, but whatever it was Jack knew it had to be important. Then when he saw the haggard Professor slumped over his desk he was sure of it.

“Mr. Murphy, please come in. As you can see it took some doing, but I think I’ve got the thing you were looking for. Come, have a look,” he beckoned Jack to have a look at the faxed documents. Topping the agenda was a document with a letter head that had been translated from Romanian to read, “Bureau of Medical Science and Research.”

“Tell me, how did you get access to all this?” Jack beamed in wonderment.

“I got it from an old friend who works for the Russian police in Moscow. He’s high enough up the food chain to get the Romanian’s to forward what I needed. He owned me one so I decided to call in the favor. Now I’ve taken the liberty to translate the Romanian, but if you’re not satisfied I can run across the hall and fetch another language expert.”

“No, that’ll be fine. What does it say?”

“It says that Dr. Sanda Vladimirescu once headed the Institute of Behavioral Psychology in Bucharest. She was then given directorship of Citizen’s Hospital #62 where she worked until fleeing to the West. Now here we have Exhibit #B,” he hands him a page long document detailing her known history.

“As you can see, she had a rather pristine record. Well respected, towed the party line, destine for bigger, better things. She had even been the recipient of numerous awards as you can see outline below. Then out of the blue the police issue a warrant for her arrest. Exhibit #C,” he holds out yet a third document.

“This is a copy of the arrest warrant. Apparently an investigation by the State Police into the dealings of the Bratva led right to her door. Of course, by the time the news hit the street, she had already gone underground, only to re-emerge in West Germany two months later.

“Bratva, that’s the name of their crime syndicate, right?”

“Yes, it literally means secret brotherhood. It’s an organization that has been around for a long time with tentacles that stretch world-wide.”

“So? This doesn’t mean she’s broken any laws nor does it make her a criminal. They could have fabricated the charge to get rid of her for all we know. I’m sure the immigration folks will want to have a look at this, but not a criminal court. That’s the way it works with American jurisprudence, it’s either put up or shut up.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” he conceded, “but that wasn’t what you asked me to find. You asked me to demystify the foundation that unites this group. You spoke of ‘privileges’ and ‘hierarchy’ and the prevailing ‘secrecy,’ and that’s the case I am prepared to present to you.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Whether or not there is merit to the charge has no bearing here. It simply shows they wanted to jail a woman who was not only a card carrying party loyalist, but without a mark on her record. The only question we need to ask is why would such a woman suddenly fall into disfavor? For whatever reason, it does show the extent they went through to rid themselves of her.”

“Now, given what we know about her thus far, I took the liberty to track down a copy of an obscure Vlachian text I once read which I thought might have some bearing on this case. I just got it this morning. Here,” he responded hurriedly as if he couldn’t open the book fast enough. “I’d like you to listen to this passage. It’s a preface to a 14th century manuscript written by cleric known only as Mathias:”
 
 

 

 

 
 
“You lost me Doc. Blood, feast, Dark Prince, rise with the night. This is beginning to sound like a Saturday matinee horror show, but this doesn’t tell me who’s behind the black mask.”

“You do read the Marquee before you pay your 10 cent admission, right Mr. Murphy?”

“Sure, but I’m the type of guy who needs to see it for himself. If the guy behind the mask isn’t revealing himself, I need to sift through the clues until the irrefutable evidence reveals itself.”

“Exactly, and that’s what this case is all about!” he emphatically stated his case. “It’s about finding a way to get those who know what’s going on to cough up the secret they are hiding.”

“How are you planning to do that? Sing’um this silly ode to a vampire?”

“It’s a stanza and it may be silly to you, but to some it’s a blood oath of allegiance to defend themselves against the hordes who would do them harm. In this case that would be the enemies of the Vlachian’s. Their leader is described as someone of great power and strength and who bears the ring.”

“Please note that Dr. Vladimirescu is Vlachian and has also been described as a person of great power and strength. The ring she wears also bears up to the description of the Blood Ring.”

“I think I also need mention that similar oaths of allegiance are used by crime organizations such as the Bratva as well. Now putting two and two together, does that ring in the stanza have any meaning to you, Mr. Murphy?”

“I don’t know, should it?” Jack squinted, uncertain as to how to reply.

“Think, sir,” he implored, asking him to follow the logic of the problem. “Think of the photograph of Dr. Vladimirescu and the ring on her finger.”

“Yeah, so, she had on a large ring on the wrong hand and on the wrong finger that didn’t quite fit the Gestapo-like image she was projecting. How’s that a blood ring?”

“Ah, so glad you asked, sir.” He finally turned a smile then pulls out a large blow up of the ring taken from the photograph. “Do you see the figure carved into the surface of the stone?”

“Yes,” he peered in close with one eye squint. “It would appear to be a crude image of a man standing with shield and spear, perhaps, I’d guess, a quarter inch in diameter.”

“That’s 6.30 millimeters to be exact. Is it small? You bet! Is it crude, primitive? Without a doubt! Is the enlarged image a bit fuzzy? Absolutely, but it’s also unmistakable. It’s the link between that ring, the stanza and Dr. Vladimirescu. We now know what they know, and it is for us to use that knowledge to get them to hand over the information you’re looking for.”

“So you’re saying all this isn’t about vampires at all. You’re saying this is just an old belief that the Bratva use to gain blood allegiance from those caught up with the myth?”

“Exactly! Although I can assure you, those who follow are quite convinced it is all very real. To them, Sanda Vladimirescu might well be seen as the one to whom the ring was intended. The very one who will lead and protect them.”

“You know, I saw an image like that just a few days ago.” He followed as if rediscovering an old fact. “It was on a tapestry in this young fellow’s apartment. I had a hunch he might have something to do with Sonya Pavel’s death, so I had him followed.”

“A man bearing a shield and spear like this one?” he asked, obviously intrigued by the possibility of a connection.

“Sure, he even wore a similar ring. He was standing in a cathedral. It was very old and beautifully done. All hand woven and definitely not made in the good old U.S. of A.”

“You said he has some connection to this case?”

“Well . . . yeah, kind of. Like I said, the only link appeared to be his car. The still unidentified suspect in the death of Sonya Pavel had used his car to vacate the premises. He has a solid alibi, but now . . .”

“What’s that, detective?” Carl cut in.

“It does seem a bit odd to find something like that in a boy’s apartment. He’s 19 no less, and there’s something else odd about him too. This kid lives in a tough neighborhood. You know, the kind of place where you don’t dare walk out at night. Yet this kid comes and goes unmolested, the house where he lives completely immune. We’re not talking Jake La Motta here, doc. We’re talking a skinny white kid as wimpy as they come. Whatever it is the kid has working for him, it’s gotta be some serious mojo.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“I’d need a warrant. Plus you see it’s like this, Doc. Presenting to a judge the link to a criminal’s past, plus eye witness testimony or material evidence are all things the law can sink its teeth into. However, to ask me to present to a judge some hoodoo from a medieval kook who saw folks running around with fangs sucking up blood is a bit out of my jurisdiction. Especially since the Defense is going to be pointing out to the judge that most of those folks consumed Peyote as often as you fill-up that pipe.”

“That would’ve probably been hashish, Mr. Murphy. Nonetheless, it’s not important that a judge or you or I believe it. It’s that others do. After all, what is myth if not the thread that runs though every culture, every society? More often than not, it’s the very thing that binds us. In fact, I’m sure if you examine your own heart you’ll find a myth or two that you structure your belief system around as well.”

“Still, if you are not convinced this theory has merit, all you need to do is test it.” He shrugged.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to walk up to Yuri and say, “open wide fella so I can inspect your Canine teeth?”

“You’re going back to Waterston?” Carl asked seemingly out of the blue.

“Tomorrow morning!”

“Take me with you.”

“No can do, professor.” He pointed his index finger like the barrel of appointed gun. “I can’t have you interfering with police work. Besides, I might be dangerous and the department can’t be held responsible for the liability.”

“The University will sign a release, and as for interfering, if I am right, you’ll not solve this without me.”

“You sound quite sure of yourself, Doc. No offense or nothing, because I can really respect that in a guy. Especially one who has put in the extra muscle into this case you have, but I still can’t take you with me.”

Although . . .,” Jack eased his stance. “I see no reason why you can’t follow me in your own car. I guess you’ve earned that much. Just remember, if you’ve something to say pass it by me first. Got it?”

“Sure, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go forgetting that. Now I’ve got one for you. This red harvest thing you read about.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve heard the term before, in reference to the annual cherry harvest. Now I’m not sure whether they grow cherries in Romania or not, but somehow I don’t think that’s what that guy Mathias was talking about. What do you suppose it means?”

“Don’t know, but then that’s what we’re going to find out, isn’t it?”
 
 
Scene XIII: Cecilia
 
 
“Hurry along now sweetie,” Francine harped at her harried protégé struggling to keep up. Her pace was neither rushed nor hasty nor out of character for a woman wearing the same style dress and shoes. In fact, she looked as if on a leisurely stroll down the street, her glide smooooth and effortless. No, that wasn’t Cecil’s problem. His problem was the tightness of that skirt that imprisoned his knees and the height of his heels that conspired to impose a speed limit on his waddling, tiptoed, minced step.

He looked none the less for wear however. That sleek, hip hugging black beauty he wore had neither crease nor crinkle when they finally reached their destination. The glittering silver spangles sewn in even sparkled beneath the street lights as Francine knocked upon the door to the surveillance van. “Yoo-hoo, anybody home? It’s Francine with a pretty little package to deliver all wrapped up with a pretty little bow.”

Arn opened the door. “ShaZzzam!” he chortled. “Special de-liv-er-eee!” he bubbled with glee. “Looking good there little buddy, err, or is that Bud-dette?”

“That’s Cecilia, Mr. Fife. Please, the poor dear is already in such a state we needn’t ruffle her feathers anymore than necessary.”

“Darn if that riggin’ don’t look near bullet proof,” Arn followed with a toothy, conspiratorial grin. “It doesn’t look like he’s going to be slipping out of that anytime soon.”

“Honey, I used everything but a blow torch. He sealed in and vacuum packed. A nuclear explosion would do nothing but enhance that radiating glow.” Arn couldn’t stop chuckling as he helped Cecil step into the van then gave his thanks to a rather smug and thoroughly satisfied Francine Frangella.

For Cecil it took two hits from the flask of Irish whiskey to settle him down. Arn needed four, just to ease the pain in his gut from the laughter, or so he told Cecil.

“Well little buddy, looks like you’ve caught yourself a break.” He finally found his focus. The whiskey had a way of doing that for him.

“Jack was here and we’ve got us some new marching orders,” he followed as he flung the folder containing the photos onto Cecil’s lap. “That’s the girl in Michael’s apartment. Her name is Tatiana Darcos. Her address is 6230 Clement and she works at the Pink Flamingo.”

“Holy cow, then this must be the girl who drove Michael’s car.” Cecil sounded off elated while Arn found himself staring as if mesmerized, still unable to wrap his mind around the thought that it was actually Cecil behind those deep dark sensuous eyes and those breathtaking, blood red lips.

“Damn, you look hot, bro!”

“Cut it, Arn!” Cecil bitterly lashed out. “Jack thinks this is the girl?”

“Yup, he said the same deal applies. He wants you to on her tail 24/7 starting now.”

“Is she still in the apartment?”

“Don’t know, haven’t seen her recently. I got those pictures when she went to pick up some clothes from the cleaners. She came back, but I’ve not seen her since. My guess is she must have slipped out while I was using the facilities.”

“Yeah right! Facilities! Damn, Arn,” he added not bothering to hide his agitation. “Well, at least now I can call Francine tomorrow to undo all this. In the meantime, we’ve got the girl’s address so let’s go find a spot and follow her from there.”

Clement Street was only two blocks away, but it was a very long street. Running parallel to Sanger, it ran on for miles. From blocks numbered in the hundreds to the blocks numbered in the thousands, but it stopped before it reached the six thousands. “He must have gotten it wrong,” Arn muttered, scratched his head while fiddling with the map. Moving it up, down, forward and back as if to make the missing block suddenly appear.

“Try right side up, Arn.” Cecil, err, Cecilia shook her head. Then seemingly out of the blue, “Hey, Arn, the Flamingo’s on Claymore Street, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember the address?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“She works at the Flamingo. Claymore, Clement, you think he got them mixed up?”

“Come be, though it ain’t like Jack to make a mistake like that.”

“Huh! Well, let’s head back to Michael’s, wait it out and I’ll call Jack in the morning.”

“Better yet,” Arn intervened, “We know where she works. It’s 9 o’clock. She’s probably at work. We could follow her back home from there. It ought to work perfectly. Besides, you’re already dressed for it. No use letting all that pretty lipstick go to waste,” he chuckled.”

“Stuff it, Arn,” Cecil spat out, though he had to concede it was a well thought out tact. All he needed to do was grit his teeth, bear the indignity and the agony of those heels just one more time. Which he did, all the way to the Pink Flamingo reciting the mantra, “I can do this, I can do this” like an athlete psyching up before the big race.

“You got a hundred, Arn?” he asked, looking into his little black clutch.

“What for?”

“The doorman, so I can get in. That’s what for, butt head.”

“Huh, I don’t think so, sugar. Just flash him that pretty smile and I can guarantee he’ll be wanting to pay you. Plus you’ll be getting all the free drinks you can handle. Heck, if you’re lucky, it might even get’cha a one way ticket to Las Vegas honeymoon suite.”

A wise man that Arn. He had that doorman pegged from half a block away. The guy who had bullied him when they had last met, now nearly tripped over himself pushing that door open to escort him in. Which Cecil did quite hurriedly, thanks to a pinch on his ass that rocketed those heels into a high stepping gallop with an amazingly high pitched, “Ooooh!”

He was right about the free drinks too. They were flung at him from all directions by men marketing the charm. The routine was “duck, weave and evade” for more than an hour. Yet throughout he kept a look out for Tatiana, who like Michael before, was nowhere to be seen.

“Another casualty of the room beyond the pink light,” he assumed with a sigh as he decided to give up the search. That is, if he could only get rid of the ripe, middle aged gentlemen who was hanging on to him. With one arm wrapped around his waist while breathing into his ear, the Piranha from Plainview simply refused to let him go.

Of course it didn’t help that he simply could not say no. For as stunning as he looked, or how artfully he managed his role, he dare not open his mouth for fear of giving himself away. Fact is, just one peep in his masculine tenor would’ve blown his cover and probably earned him a punch in the nose. That left only his hands and the universal shaking of his pretty head to say “no.” That meant it took some doing to wrangle himself free. Which he eventually did, then rushed out with a quick paced, waddling, tiptoeing mince that would have done Francine Frangella proud.

“So why the hissy-fit,” Are laughed, “He didn’t cop a feel, did he?” he cajoled as he again handed Cecil the flask to help settle him down. “So, did you see her?”

“Heck no! There wasn’t a decent looking babe in the room. There isn’t anything in there except lechers, leaches, octopi and piranha. Like I told you, all the action is in the back room. Or wherever, cause it sure isn’t happening in there.”

“Then I guess we’d better head back to Michael’s and wait it out. In the morning we can call Jack and see where we go from here.”

“Yeah, whatever! Just get me away from here. I need to freshen up.”

“Freshen up?’ Arn laughed. “I think that dress is starting to wear on you, little buddy.”
 
 
Scene XIV: A Deal Goes Down
 
 
By 8 A.M. the next morning Jack was on his way to the Essex county Police Department. In his review mirror he saw Carl Rutherford’s blue Oldsmobile following close behind. He had called the night before to ask for assistance. Not only because Waterston, New Jersey, was not his jurisdiction, but if anything did go down he’d need all the muscle he could get. He was put in touch with Detective Monday and was on his way to meet up with him in his office.

Abe Monday had a bushy gray moustache and was balding on top. He seemed a bit sedate and overfed for a guy still chasing down bad guys. He was a big fellow though, with a big face and a scowl built right in. Then when he opened up with his coarse Bedford-Stuyvesant accent, well, that sealed the deal as far as Jack was concerned. They were going to get along just find.

An ex-NYPD detective from Manhattan, Abe had managed his escape from the street wars 5 years prior and was now the Chief Detective for the more tranquil Essex County Police Department. His story seemed perfectly scripted from Jack’s point of view, even if he was the last guy on earth who’d ever own up to it. Although, he had to admit there were mornings. More so recently it seemed, when he’d wake up and wonder if that country home with a cherry orchard round back might be right for him as well.

He and Jack were kindred spirits, and after Jack had presented his case, they set out with Carl Rutherford in tow like two old warships armed and ready and still in the hunt for the enemy no matter how rough the sea. Their plan of attack was to concentrate their fire on the most vulnerable target. In this case that happened to be Arina Stansila. The frightened housekeeper, who felt rather slighted by Vlady and for some reason, rather incensed with her fellow compatriots.

She seemed rather pissed at Jack as well for having come back, and again, she wasn’t about to let him in. Nor was she happy when Abe flashed his badge in her face when she again tried to slam the door in his face.

“Arina, I’d like your cooperation. If you’re willing, the law is more likely to listen to anything in way of defense you might have to offer.” Jack’s tone was steadfast.

“Defense? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’ve every reason to believe you know what has happened to Michelle Pavel and that you are now endeavoring to conceal that fact. Furthermore, you knew Dr. Vladimirescu was not a licensed therapist when Michelle was her patient. Failing to report that makes you an accomplice, a punishable offense. After that, you can count on the INS putting you on the first flight back to Romania. So I need to ask you again, where is Michelle?”

“I told you, I do not know.”

“Well, that is yet to be determined, Arina, and I will find out. Where is Dr. Vladimirescu now?”

“She’s in Germany with Mihaela Ceausescu. She went on business.”

“When will she return?”

“I do not know. Nobody knows, but it must be soon. Yuri and Egore already prepare for the harvest.”

“You were the housekeeper, right?”

“Yes.”

“That gave you a unique insight into what went on in that house, didn’t it Arina? I’ve heard some from Egore and Yori, now I need hear it from you.”

“No, I do not know all that they know. I’m just a housekeeper.” Jack could see the fear written on her face, but not of him. It was obvious that whatever hung over her head held greater sway than did the mere threat of jail, and he wondered whether he had chosen the right tact.

“Then you have chosen not to cooperate, Arina?” He prodded, hoping to get her to see the seriousness of what she faced.

“If that is your decision, then I must warn this may not play out well for you.” He fired yet another bullet hoping to pierce through her silence. Instead she just stood there for an indeterminately long length, head down, her tears cascading down to the floor.

He was just about to fire off yet another round when Carl Hutchinson stepped in. It was obvious he had no intention of honoring the promise he had made to Jack.

“The Blood ring!” he blurted out, even though Jack had told him to say nothing without discussing it with him first. Jack was pissed and was just about to pull him back by the ear when Arina looked up with a gaze as searing as molten steel.

The intensity of her response and that look in her eye was all the evidence Jack needed. She not only knew about the ring, but the ring was the one thing she feared more than jail.

“I know about it, Arina! When Vlady is caught, and she will be caught, Detective Monday is going to put that ring into a box. That box is going to be locked in a larger box and packed into a crate. Then that crate is going to be stored in a secure locker at some unknown location 5 floors below ground alongside millions of other articles of evidence under armed guard. Even worse, the ring will be lost to you and all the generations to follow.”

“Throughout all those centuries you and your brethren have endured immense suffering to protect that ring. Now all that you fought to protect lies solely in your hands. Either you let Detective Monday seal the ring away in that box, or you tell Detective Murphy what he wants to know. If you do, I’ll claim the ring as a treasure of Romanian antiquity, and if and when it can be safely returned to your fatherland, it will be. The choice is yours.”

“Vlady will protect it,” Arina replied, looking down, avoiding their eyes. Obviously she didn’t look like a woman overwhelmed with conviction. Rather, she looked afflicted, as if filled with disappointment and regret.

“No she won’t and you know it. I heard you speak. You have no faith in her. In fact, I don’t think you trust Dr. Vladimiresu anymore than I do. The way I see it, you have no loyalty to her, only the ring. Now you need honor that ring and your countrymen, Arina.”

Arina grew upright again, her eyes glowing with a fierce determination, knowing what must be done. “No, I’ve done nothing wrong. If I tell you all, you give the ring to me and I’ll return to Germany and place it in safe keeping. For that I help you find Vlady and Michelle and rid you of what plagues you.”

“If you are innocent as you say, it’s a deal,” Jack pushed forward to take her hand. “The ring need not even go into States evidence if I have all the evidence I need to convict her. Give me what I need and I promise you the ring.”

“Come, I will show you.” she said pointing to the door, drawing her house keys from her pocket. “I have the key.”

---

 
Acknowledgement: I need thank Amber Talamasca for her contributions and Amelia French, for her support and guidance. I’d love to thank my editor as well, but I’m afraid my dear friend cs. is a bit too modest to accept the accolades so richly deserved.
 
 ©2009 by josie ©. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 
To Be Continued in Part Two

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The Legal Stuff: Murphy's Law: Book II - Red Harvest  © 2009 by josie.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

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Scene: I: Big Fish
 
 
Cecil looked at himself in the mirror, which was something he rarely did, really, a man never does. Oh sure, as a kid he’d stand there wrapped in a towel after a shower and flex, pose and run through the usual checklist to facial expressions to see how he compared. Then as a young man to work out that balance between ruggedness and sophistication the ladies find so appealing. It’s all quite heady and yes, sometimes vain, but always in a reflective way.

A boy doesn’t use a mirror to change what he sees. He uses the mirror to help make what he sees work. Much like you might use a backboard to increase your odds at making a shot, but as any good coach will tell you, not as a tool to create a shot that isn’t already there.

Now here he was at age 24, a year out of the academy, two years out of college dressed as a woman looking at that backboard as his sole means of making that two-pointer. Not in a reflective way, but as a woman might, with shrewdness and guile. It was a whole new relationship with a mirror, but a necessary distraction for a rookie cop undercover for the first time. Leastwise that’s how he saw it.

“A distraction?” he wondered while powdering his nose exactly the way Francine had showed him. “Sure, just something I gotta do to make sure I’m not made. Or done,” he furrowed his lovely wing-swept brows when giving that notion a second thought. Although there was a slight devilish up tick to his facial expression as well. There’s always some vanity in knowing you’d gotten it just right. With just enough hauteur and allure to gain access to his target, knowing he’d done his job well.

“That’s all it is after all,” Cecil tried to convince himself while putting the compact back in his clutch. “It’s just a job.” Although it did worry him some that the word “allure” had just popped into his head, seemingly from out of nowhere. For some reason just the sound of it besieged his sensibilities like the heady scent of his perfume.

“Freshen-up? Allure?” God, I’ve got to get out of this stuff fast,” Cecil verbalized his thoughts while Cecilia used a tissue to clean the errant traces of black mascara from the corner of her eye.

“There now, all done,” Cecilia smiled, taking a bit of pride in her work, and yes, a little pride in herself too. Now for her trial and the verdict of her jurors as she walked out of the women’s restroom and then sauntered past her admirers sitting at the tables and lined up at the bar. Though not so quick as to pass on that Pink Lady, offered by a man who’d managed to lasso her in. Of course she did try to gesture an appeal, but with no voice of her own what choice did a lady have but surrender to his will and the arm wrapped around her waist.

“Besides, surrender now and live to fight another day.” That’s how it went, right?” Or so that’s what Cecilia told herself as she engaged his smile to the “clink” of the cocktail glasses. Then nodding her thanks she bid a gracious, “toot-a-loo,” as she made a quick exit out of the Starlight Lounge.

Cecil looked down the block and spotted the surveillance van and wondered how Arn was holding up on his own. It was already approaching sunset. A bad time to leave a man with an itch to scratch all alone to his own devises. Especially one who is already on a first name basis with the liquor store clerk just a few doors down. Still, there is always reason to hope.

He looked at his watch, realizing he’d spend an hour inside the lounge primping up. So he hurried back and to his surprise found Arn had been very well behaved. Well, sort’a! Leastwise he was still sober, though no less the foolhardy, insensitive pain in the butt.

“Woooh! Lookie here!” he ogled and cooed, “Ooooo and aah,” then rattled on as if the delirious effects of abstinence were eating away what was left of his brain. “I’m telling you sweet cheeks, you are hot!”

“Cool it, Arn. You’re married.” Arn laughed and Cecil muttered to himself, “Damn, I’ve got to stop drinking those Pink Ladies.”

Cecil sat down on the swivel seat across of Arn, remembering to keep his legs crossed before sitting back to have a look at what had been keeping Arn so pleasantly distracted. Aligning the interior wall panels now hung a row of 8x10 framed glosses of Tatiana dressed in that flaming pink windbreaker and short white pleated shirt slinking across the street.

“What in the heck are you doing, Arn?” Cecil asked, but Arn didn’t respond. Rather he just stared and smiled like a starry-eyed punch-drunk man watching the words flow from those candy apple lips like weightless tiny pink bubbles floating whimsically his way.

“Arn, Arn,” Cecil snapped his fingers. “What’s with you?” Cecil had elevated his voice to a level of harshness that finally managed to cut through Arn’s state of delirium, and along with it, those tiny pink bubbles drifted away with the return of his senses.

“Aaaah, I’m aah, not really sure,” he replied scratching his head. “I guess I was just bored, or something. Hey, don’t mind me, I kind of get like this sometimes.” He grinned foolishly, like a boy suddenly startled out of his daydream by his angry teacher. He looked up to see what he had done, shook his head and said, “Huh! Fishing!”

“What’s that Arn?”

“Oh, just something my uncle told me when I was a kid back in Ireland. He was a fisherman. You see back then, fishing was akin to religion, only instead of holy this and holy that, it was fishing this, fishing that. I remember he once sat me on his lap and said to me life is like fishing. You’re always looking for the big one. The trick is, when you spot her swimming close in to the rocks, don’t go letting her out of your sights.”

“That makes Tatiana the big one, right?”

“Yeah, well, even at 8 I knew he weren’t talking about no mackerel.”

“I think this job is getting to you, Arn. Although, I do thank you for holding your post even as hard as I know it had to be.”

“Nah, I just gotta keep busy, that’s all.”

“You haven’t seen her?” Cecil enquired.

“Who, the big fish?” Arn followed while looking up at the pictures he’d taken such care to align in a perfect row.

“Yeah, Arn, the one you saw swimming close in to the rocks.”

“Nope, just Michael. How about you? Did you get in touch with Jack?”

Nothing, I tried three times. He checked out a car at 5 this morning and hasn’t been in contact since.”

“What did the log say?” Arn asked.

“That he was going to Waterston. Do you know where or what that is, Arn?”

“Not really sure. The only Waterston that comes to mind is a small town in New Jersey. I used to take the wife up there come cherry season.”

“Huh, I wonder what’s going on up there?” Cecil found himself looking at yet another group of photos sprawled out on the table as if Arn had been scrutinizing them as well. Photos of him Arn had taken the night before as he was leaving the Pink Flamingo.

One picture showed him standing at the curb waiting to cross the street. Behind him there was a crowd milling about, and in the forefront two ladies, one in red and one in blue dolled up for a night on the town. Both in their mid-twenties, slim, attractive prime U.S. cut beef. Yet seeing himself juxtaposed between, he could scarcely tell himself apart.

“I was just about to hang them up next.” Arn chuckled at his cleverness.

“Stick it,” Cecil spat out, though it was clear to both the words had left their mark, somewhere between his new found vanity and the remnants of masculine bravado. Cecil or Cecilia in this case, didn’t seem the hesitant, weak-kneed, star-struck dumb blond bimbo she appeared two days ago. She had a new air of confidence about her, one even Cecil himself could sense.

“So, I guess we just wait and watch for Michael to leave for work again. You go back in, keep an eye out for Tatiana and we’ll see what happens.”

“Yeah, but I’m not going in the front way this time.”

“You’re not?” Arn perked up. “You’re going in as Olga?”

“That’s why we did this, right? I mean, that’s what we’ve been planning from the start.”

“Yeah, but there’s something else about that Cliff Morgan story I ain’t told you yet. Something I’ve been meaning to tell you, but ain’t got around to just yet.”

“Yeah, and when were you fixing to tell me?” he sounded a bit irate.

“Ah, now, don’t be getting your panties in no uproar, girlie. I’ve been fixin’ too. You see, it’s like this.” Arn cleared his throat. “Ol’Cliff he did exactly like I said. Only it didn’t go so smooth. He was spotted, and after they broke a couple of bones he wasn’t so happy he done it.”

“Gee, thanks for telling me Arn!” He uncorked. “Were you planning on telling me on the way to the Coroners?”

“Now, now, it ain’t like that. They didn’t kill him, but it is dangerous work. I want you to keep that in mind. Protect yourself, be on your toes and if you sniff out trouble, run like hell if you can. If not, well, I ain’t letting you go in by yourself without this.” Arn opened a cabinet and pulled out a tiny Smith and Weston single shot Derringer.

“A pea shooter? You’re kidding. That’ll bounce off those guys.”

“I doubt that. Actually this little baby has quite a punch. 38 caliber and pretty darn accurate within 10 feet.”

“Ten feet! Okay, I’ll be sure to step them off before I pull the trigger.” Cecil responded sarcastically while contemplating his alternatives.

“Hey, better than using them heels. You can only poke out one eye at a time with that. With the other eye they’re going to be shooting for sure. Besides, it has something those heels don’t have.”

“What’s that?”

“The element of surprise. The thing’s so tiny you can hide it in your pantyhose. It comes with this sleek little holster too. Come on, try it on. Can’t hurt you none,” which was true. So he did try it on and found that Arn was right about the stealth aspects of the gun. Not to mention the sense of security he felt knowing that if need be, he’d have at least one good shot at saving his life.

He wore it for the remainder of the day and at 8 that night when Michael re-emerged with guitar case in hand he felt ready for most anything. They again followed Michael to work. Arn drove while Cecil slipped on the cleaning ladies smock, cap and pinned on “his” photo ID. Then like a sprinter preparing for a race, he psyched himself up to enter that service entrance door.

When they arrived, everything was setup just as they had planned. The Tepes Cleaning Company van again parked outside the rear entrance door and only one lady, not two stepped out to begin her nights work. A moment later Cecilia sucked in a deep breath, stepped out and made her way toward the parked van. She opened the side door, retrieved a bucket and mop and cool as a Flamingo in season she headed up that long flight of stairs.
 
 
Scene II: Caps
 
 
Jack, Abe, Carl and Arina made the short drive to Dr. Vladimirescu’s house in Arina’s car. Jack seemed to think even an unmarked police car seen outside her house would draw more unwanted attention than they needed. Abe drove and it was well that he did. Jack had a lot on his mind.

He looked in the back seat where Arina sat beside Carl. Her eyes were still moist and her anguish was etched on her face. She looked as if she’s aged a quarter century in the last 5 minutes, and as Jack again turned back around he felt as if he had as well. The fact that Carl had been right about that ring had thrust this case into a whole new arena.

There were now others involved. Arina, perhaps even Yuri, Egore and the rest of this small immigrant community who were bound by the power that ring held over them. He still didn’t understand any of it, but he knew Sonya’s mysterious death and Michelle’s disappearance would be left to the annals of the forgotten for time and continuum until he did. He also knew this was a place where he’d have to tread carefully or risk putting himself or others in jeopardy.

“Funny,” Jack uttered, unconsciously voicing his thoughts, “All this beauty and bounty, and beneath it, the disappointment and regret.”

“What’s that?” Abe asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Jack went on to say. “My folks used to bring me out here when I was a kid. The ocean of white blossoms that dotted the landscape with the rolling green hills beyond seemed quite amazing to me, a city kid.”

“Yes,” was the only way Abe knew how to respond to something so personal.

“You know, we’re going to need a warrant, Abe,” Jack said in a low voice, just auditable enough to be heard over the sound of tires over hard gravel as they approached the house.

“I’ll call Judge Barnes when we get there. Arina is inviting us in so as long as we don’t touch nothing before the warrant arrives we’ll be okay.”

“It’ll need to be sent by an unmarked car. We don’t need to arouse anymore suspicion than is necessary.”

“Yeah, I thought of that. A mail truck ought to do it.” Abe was on top of things. Jack felt a comfort in that. His voice had a quiet, reassuring strength of a man whose thoughts and his pace where in cadence with his own. He looked poised and cool, his face as unstirred and expressionless as the few words he spoke. Yes, Jack was glad he was here.

At the foot of the driveway they saw a large red bucket perched upon a tree stump that had been strategically placed beside the lamp post directly in front of them. There were several long thin spars, or spears sticking out of the bucket, each with an impaled crow on display at the end. The car came to a stop.

“What in the hell is that?” Jack, Abe and Carl stared in disbelief, but not Arina. She stepped out and the others followed like bloodhounds to gather around the bucket three-quarters full of a blood red fluid.

Jack reached down to test it. “Cherry juice,” he concluded, holding his finger up to show the familiar red stain.

“Yes, it’s a sign they gather tonight. They sense something is coming.”

“Cherry juice is a sign? Of what?” Jack asked.

“It means the blood of their enemy.” Arina followed.

“Who’s the enemy, us or the lusting crows?” Abe inquired lightheartedly, finding the link between the two somewhat funny. Only Arina wasn’t buying into it.

“Not you. They did not know you were coming here. Someone else!”

“I wonder where it came from? The harvest is still two weeks away.” Abe seemed more interested in the ‘who-done-it’ than why it was done.

“Yuri and Egore know where they are ripe.”

“So now we know who did this,” he followed, conscious of her deliberate glare.

“Yes, Yuri and Egore gather the others.”

“Huh!” Jack grunted, “Red Cherries, red blood.”

“From the harvest,” Carl cut in, “Red blood, red harvest! I think we found what we were looking for, Jack. Red Harvest means a blood harvest.”

“Yes, but whose?” Jack’s voice tailed off into an ominous void.

“Come, we must hurry,” Arine expressed the need for urgency. “The night draws near.”

Arina showed them in and Abe placed his call. The estimate was that it would take about an hour for the warrant to arrive, so they used the time to become familiar with the place. It was a luxurious home. Well furnished and maintained, certainly above the standards of most homes in the area, but not so ostentatious as to stand out, or perhaps, draw unwanted attention. In a like manner, he saw no signs of anything improper or out of the ordinary.

In fact, there was almost a sterile quality to the place. Absent signs of people and movement with things untouched as if no one had even lived there. There were clothes in the closet of course, and food in the pantry as well. He also saw the usual array of household plants and pictures of Vlady and her friends in her bedroom. However, nothing looked used, or altered or out of place in the least. Likewise her office; which looked almost as if it had been setup in a department store window to entice the onlooker to buy into it.

Arina sat in the living room with Carl holding her hand while Jack and Abe looked about. Neither spoke, though like two old battle cruisers searching the still waters for the enemy sub beneath, neither had to. They both knew what the other was seeing. From the travel brochures and home decorating magazines Jack found stuffed in the office file cabinets, to the absence of scuff marks on the polished hardwood floors that Abe thought rather odd.

The garage, or what used to be the garage, looked quite different however. It had been converted in to an arts and crafts room that did look used, though not recently. As well, inside the house there were three doors that still remained locked. Obviously a keen point of interest, though they dare not ask about them until the postal carrier arrived with the warrant. An excruciating long wait, but when the courier finally did arrive neither could get the words out fast enough.

“Okay, Arina, it’s time to show us what we’re not seeing.”

Arina searched through her ring of keys then rose up, walked down the hallway and opened the first of those doors.

“So this is where they spent their time?” Jack asked of Arina while stepping inside.

“Here and in the garage, yes. They ate in the kitchen.”

Jack stepped in. The room was easily the largest room in the house. With a fireplace and a bay window, he speculated that it was once a sitting room that had been walled off. Inside, there was a lounge with a large library of books. Off to the right there was another door that led to a second office. It was small, but with everything from a telefax to an office safe, this was obviously the office she used.

Jack along with Abe looked inside the office, finding the desk strewn with paper work of all sorts. Abe sat down at the desk and picked up a letter then showed it to Jack. It was a business letter with the letter head “DB, Ltd.” A further look produced other documents with the same letterhead, and in the file cabinets, folders of business transactions engaged by that company that dated back years.

“What’s all this?” Jack enquired, handing one of the documents to Arina.

“It’s her company.”

“She owns a company? What is it, do you know?”

Abe cut in holding up yet another document he’d found. “It seems that DB, Ltd. is a West German based company. The DB stands for Dimitru Brothers. I don’t know about you, but that sounds kind of odd to me.”

“How so?” Jack lifted his nose up from his reading.

“It’s a West German company that operates under a Romanian name. That’s what’s odd! Why they do I don’t know. Furthermore, the CEO of the company is an expatriate Romanian. Namely, none other than Sanda Vladimirescu, the very woman we are looking for. This is a recently signed purchase agreement for a tenement in the Tremont District and signed by her.”

“Tremont?” Jack replied dismissively. “Only an idiot would invest money there.”

“Why?” Abe asked, though clearly he already knew the answer.

“It’s a war zone that’s why.” Jack fired back.

“For now, but if you have the muscle and the money to hold on to it, I’d say that’s about as close to investing in Fort Knox as you can get.”

“How so?”

“Location, location, location! It’s only a short jog from Manhattan, one of the most densely populated cities in the world. Plus from what I’ve heard, the government has been talking about pumping in urban redevelopment money in a big way. I’ve read about it in the papers. New expressways, bridge and harbor access and all. I’d bet in 10 years you won’t even recognize the place. Buying something like that at pennies to the dollar makes it some pretty valuable real estate.”

“You know, that kid Michael I have under surveillance lives in a place like that.”

“A Dimitru owned property?”

“I don’t know, but it fits. The place stands like a monument on the Capital Mall without a scratch on it, completely immune to the chaos going on around it.”

“Well, there you go - the muscle and the money! The only question is where does her company get the money?” Jack and Abe’s eyes met up at the large safe in the corner then met up again as Abe finished his thought. “I’m feeling lucky,” he grinned and then rubbed two fingers together next to his ear as if preparing to try his hand at opening the safe.

Jack left Abe to his search finding Carl sitting on the sofa beside a large bookcase. In one hand he had a book in the other his pipe. He walked over, quickly perusing the selection of books noting that all were children’s books; everything from learning the fundamentals of cursive writing to the fundamentals of Trigonometry. There was also an abundance of storybooks. Classics like Huck Finn and Call of the Wild, to children’s fairy tales. Some were written in English, though many were written in Romanian as well.

Jack came around and stood behind Carl to read off his shoulder. “Reading Fairytales, Carl?”

“Sort of. This is an 18th Century Romanian children’s fable about the big bad wolves that gather in the night to steal the peasant’s sheep and any children who happened to wander to far away in the night.”

“A Romanian version of the Big Bad Wolf?”

“Sort of, only to ward off the wolves they use shields. To do the wolves in they use spears. Then apparently they stick the severed head of the wolf on a pole and display it in the village to ward off any others who dare venture a try.” Carl showed him a picture of a wolf head sitting atop a pole with children dancing around it as they would a Maypole. Down the course of the pole ran a vivid red river of blood.

“Tough folks those Romanian’s,” Jack chuckled.

Arina came up along side. “Come, I show you her room.” She beckoned him to follow her to the door at the end of the hall.

“This is Vlady’s room, the one she uses” Arina whispered as she opened the door, almost with a caution as if still paying homage to those who lived there.

Jack peered into the darkness. A void so absolute, only the chill in the air could escape. The reason became clear once she flicked on the light. The windowless room void of any decoration or frills, housed nothing more than an unusually narrow bed with black bedding and a mirror-less dresser painted black as night.

He walked into the room. “No window?” he asked.

“No, she had it removed.”

“Huh!” Jack grunted, scanning the four walls as barren as those of a crypt.

“Interesting décor,” he followed trying to lighten the mood. “I figured the woman had gone batty, but this is insane asylum we’re talking here.”

Jack walked to the closet and was somewhat relieved to see that at least her choice of clothing expressed some color. Some black garments, but also some garments that were red and a preponderance of grays. He also found some men’s clothes as well. Shirts, slacks, shoes, “Perhaps the old broad isn’t so dead after all,” he chuckled to himself.

Again, he walked through the room. “No pictures or mirrors?” he asked.

“No, Vlady does not like them. Only this,” she added while walking over to the bed then pulled back the black cover revealing a large red crest centering the sheet. It was a large circle with a sword running down the center, its blade pointed down. There was a winged dragon on each side of the blade, each looking as if preparing to sting an enemy with its barbed tail.

“What does it say?” Jack reached out and traced his fingers over the embossed script along the perimeter of the circle.

“Defender of the people,” She replied.

“Is that like the Romanian flag, or something?”

“No, it’s only carried by the one.” Jack had heard something like that before. From Carl it immediately stuck him.

“Carl,” he calls out to the other room. “Come here and have a look at this.”

“Yeah, Jack,” he came rushing in, his pipe in one hand and book in the other. “What does that say, Carl?”

“It’s . . . her name. Sanda, Shield of the people, and that object I am assuming must be a family crest.”

“No, it means ‘to defend’, not shield,” Arina corrected.

“Well then, that’s it. It’s a family crest wore in battle.”

“Is that it, Arina?” Jack asked.

“Yes, but it is only borne by the one.”

“You mean the head of the family, that being Vlady, right?” Carl begged her to clarify.

“Yes, Vlady is the leader.”

“Will I find something like this in Michelle’s room?” Jack wanted to know.

“No, come I show you her room.”

Unlike Vlady’s room, Michelle’s looked pretty much as you’d find most any teenaged girl’s room. It was bright, colorful, mostly in pinks and whites with the normal assortment of dolls and pictures. Plus a vanity filled with every cosmetic known to mankind. You could almost hear the audible sound of relief when Jack finally spoke out. “Well, at least she was smart enough to keep her insanity locked up in that room.”

He had his look around. The closet had the normal assortment of lovely dresses, shoes and the like. Everything a girl could want, but there was something else he found too. Boy clothes, several pairs of slacks, a few long sleeve shirts and two pair of brown oxford dress shoes. He turned to ask Arina about his find when he spotted two pictures sitting on a nightstand just to his right.

He picked them both up. One he recognized as Michelle, an older Michelle, in her late teens and already a young woman. The other was of Michelle too, only different. In this picture she was dressed as a boy, and the more he looked at that picture, the more he kept seeing the likenesses of that boy Michael, the musician he had met.

“Arina?” his asked, though it sounded more like a plea for help as he held up the picture of Michelle. “Explain this one to me, please! Who is this?”

She didn’t move from her place at the door. “It is a picture of Michelle.”

“And this one?” he held up the other.

“Michael,” Arina replied.

“Michael? The musician Michael, the Michael Chapman I’ve been following?

“Yes! That is the same Michael Chapman.”

“What is it doing here, and why is it the two look the same to me?”

“That is because they are both the same person, Mr. Murphy.”

“What?” he screamed. “This is madness!” Jack stormed toward her unable to contain his anger. “Why didn’t you tell me, Arina?” he bellowed out his rage.

“I am telling you now.” She recoiled.

“Why?” he menaced, tight fisted as if prepared to knock out her lights.

“She did it because he was to become like her, a person of many faces. Michael, Michelle, Tatiana are all the same you see, and just as the world does not know Vlady’s identity, neither will the world know anything of Michael when it is his turn to bear the ring.”

“Tatiana Darcos? That is Michael too?”

“Yes, that is Michael. He plays the part well.”

“Damn!” Jack shook his head as if disbelieving the boy he’d met could possibly inhabit that body. “He sure had me fooled.”

“That is why.” Arina responded.

“For a disguise?”

“Yes, Vlady has many. She comes and goes as she wishes to appear. You look for one and find another with no way of knowing they are the same. Michael is to become like her. Only his transformation is not yet complete. There is yet another to emerge, and as his resistance weakens, so too does it grow stronger. Though unlike the others, its heart is cold and dark and distant.”

“Vlady?”

“Yes, but not the Vlady you see. Like I said, Vlady has many faces. Among other things, she is a woman, she is a leader and she is also a man.”

“Give me a break! You’re joking?”

“No, I am not. That is how she escaped to the west. They were looking for the woman they knew her to be.”

“Unbelievable! Who is this person?”

“A person with many faces, Mr. Murphy.”

“How could she have kept that hidden?”

“It’s not hard to hide. She appears as a woman. Who is to ask? Out of respect, authorities do not examine women as closely as you think.”

“So you’re saying it’s the Vlady part of Sanda, the male part of her that is the evildoer? As you say, the one with a heart that is dark, cold and distant? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, just as it will be for Michael when the other emerges.”

“Like a chrysalis in a cocoon?”

“Yes, he is a boy, but a child is not born with a heart that is cold, dark and distant. It requires someone like Vlady to bring that into being. Only he still does not want it. He wishes only to see himself as Michelle and Tatiana. That is why it still struggles to break free.”

"You mean Michael is still innocent. He has yet to be corrupted and she’s trying to change that. She wants a darker Michael who’ll embrace the evil as well. Is that it?” Jack labored to frame his thoughts.

“Yes, and when complete, him shall go by another name.”

“What name?”

“I do not know.”

“So let me see if I have this right. You knew this psychopath was trying to infect him with this madness and did nothing?” Jack again tightened up in anger.

“Yes, I knew, but I opposed her!” she was emphatic. “Like Dr. Rutherford has said, I’ve always known she isn’t who she says she is. Our leader is supposed to be the champion the common man, not herself.”

“Does that fit, Carl,” he asked him to verify.

“Yes, the person she is referring to is seen through myth and legend as a champion of the people’s cause. Although, he was also bloody ruthless, and damn good at it.”

“That fits. Like I said, she’s a psychopath.”

“True,” Carl relied, “but then the world is riddled with people who when feeling empowered by their beliefs can see no middle ground. Especially if they feel they’ve fighting for a cause.”

“Yes, in Romania she was called Sanda, not Vlady. I knew her as a good doctor, always a leader, but as a woman who did good and hurt no one. No one knew her otherwise until she escaped to the west. Only after becoming Vlady did she become the evil thing that sleeps in that room and feasts on the weaknesses of others.”

“She could not have done this without help.” Jack was furious and with clenched fists, made no attempt to hide it.

“Yes, she has help. She has West German financial partners who helped us flee to the west and gave us shelter in Frankfurt. That is when she and Milhaela came to us and showed us the ring. She said it was in her family for 500 years and now that she was free, she would take her rightful place.

“At first I did not know what to think. Perhaps part of me wanted to believe, but in my heart I knew it was not true. Wickedness and deceit are her life’s blood. That’s where she gets her strength, and when she needs to replenish, she feasts upon the blood of those who do not honor her. She is ruthless and cold and I despise her and those who blindly follow. So did Sonya. We both tried to oppose her.”

“She knew you two were working against her and did nothing? I hardly find that credible.”

“Yes, Vlady knew, but Sonya and I both had important roles to play. We were not expendable. Then a month ago Vlady told Michael in a fit of rage that our usefulness was done. She said she was going to Germany for others to take our places, and when she returned she was going to make us dig our own grave, bury our bodies and display our heads to scarce away the crows from the cherry orchard. Michael warned me and then went to warn Sonya. He told us to run, but the fight was not in Sonya. Even before Michael left the building after warning her, she jumped.”

“So Michael had nothing to do with it.”

“No! He simply went to warn her.”

“Why then report the car stolen?”

“It was just coincidence. Vlady told him to so an associate could use the car for important company business. Only the man did not come for the car. At the last minute he had changed his plans and used another instead. That’s when he went to see Sonya.”

“Important company business?” he shuttered to think what that might mean. “You mean unsavory business? He wanted it clarified.

“Yes.”

“I guess that speaks of her business. That also means you already knew Sonya was dead when I first came looking for Michelle. Yet you led me to believe you knew nothing about it.”

“I did, but I did not know you were police. You did not say. I was afraid you were sent by Vlady to test my loyalty, or worse, to kill me where I stood.”

“Why didn’t Michael say anything to me? He knew of the danger.”

“As I’ve said, to Michael Vlady is real. He is no longer strong enough to break the spell. Each day it grows worse. Soon he will be like her, no longer with a mind of his own.”

“He went to warn Sonya. Out of loyalty to her I assume because she was not his birth mother. So tell me, who is Michael? Where did he come from?”

“I am not certain. A woman I do not know brought him when we fled to the west. That’s all I know.”

“Was he an abandon child?” he asked, only before Arina could answer Abe came rushing in with an accounts receivable journal in his hand.

“Look at this, Jack.” He could scarcely contain his excitement.

“Dimitru Brothers is buying up those old tenements by the truck load, and where are they getting the money?” He held out the ledger.

“Let me guess,” Jack replied. “Racketeering!”

Big time, buddy! Protection money from hundreds of business both here and New York. Not only that, but they’re into the numbers game and gambling the likes of which I’ve never seen before. Here is the list.” He opens the ledger to show him the names.

“How did you get all this?” Jack could scarcely believe his eyes.

“Easy,” he chuckled, “That is once I found this,” he answered while showing Jack the number written on the palm of his hand.

“The combination,” Jack’s eyes lit up. “Where did you find it?”

“Right where you’d expect me to find it, on the bottom of the top desk drawer,” he beamed.”

“Right out of the text book,” Jacked laughed.

“Yup, and inside was this book. It lists every one of their operations, even deposit slips. “I’ve all I need,” he paused then with a steely look. “Jack! We’ve hit upon the mother load. We’re standing in the heart of roach city, the operational center of the Romanian syndicate!”

Jack looked down the list of 30 odd businesses listed under the Dimitru Brothers Company name. First on the list was the Pink Flamingo. “Aaah, damn!” Jack slaps his head. The Pink Flamingo! I’ve got an agent in there without backup.”

“The enemy in their midst,” Carl cut in.

“Yes,” Arine replied. “They gather for him.”

“I’ve got to get him out of there!” Jack bellowed out with a fierceness of a lion protecting his mate.

“Not so fast, buddy. You’ve yet to hear the bottom line.” He pulls out a receipt for the purchase of two airline tickets. They were for a Pan Am flight from Laguardia to Frankfurt, Germany. Departing May 3 and returning June 2nd, at 6:30 P.M. EST.

“That’s like . . . today!” Jack looked at his watch. “It’s 7:45 now!” he followed in a bit of a panic. “There’re on their way back home this minute.”

“That’s a 90 minute drive when the conditions are optimal,” Abe’s voice a little edgy as well. “That gives us 15 minutes tops.” Abe paused and gathered his thoughts. “I’ll call for backup and you see about getting your team out of the Flamingo!”

Only just as they started to leave they heard footsteps. Their eyes met up, realizing it was already too late. Jack signaled to Abe he was going out to look. Motioning for the others to stay low and remain quiet, the two old warships slowly advanced down the hall toward their target. Neither Jack nor Abe had a weapon. Abe’s was in the glove compartment of Arina’s car and Jack didn’t carry one.

Once in the dinning room, Abe went left and Jack flanked right. It was growing late. The air was cool and the shadows already erased by the approach of darkness. Jack’s route through the dinning room momentarily separated him from Abe. He knew they’d meet up again once he reached the other side of the room, but before he could get there he heard a scuffle break out.

Jack rushed to the aid of his friend, finding Abe with a choke hold around Yuri’s neck. Jack grabbed a nearby lamp, ripped off the cord then rushed in to secure Yuri’s hands. He had no sooner tightened the loop when from behind them another figure emerged from the kitchen. It was Egore with a club in his hand charging toward Jack.

Abe shoved the bound Yuri into the charging Egore, and as they collided Jack pounced on him and wrestled him to the ground. Abe secured his hands.

“Who are these guys,” Abe asked, again with a sharp edge to his voice.

“Neighbors! They’ve been keeping an eye on the place and us too. I think we’ve drawing some unwanted attention.”

“You think so?” Abe was showing the signs of tension.

“Yeah, maybe you ought to move Arina’s car around back to lower our profile. I’ll finish securing these two and call in for backup.”

“That’ll work,” Abe replied already half way out the door. He drove Arina’s car around back and secured his weapon from the glove compartment. As he started back to the house he saw a pair of headlamps coming up the drive. “Damn,” he cursed realizing he was caught in the open, his partner trapped inside. He found cover and waited for the car to come to a stop, then moved into position to come in from behind as the occupant entered.

Jack has seen the car coming too. Quickly he finished securing Yuri and Egore using a pair of socks to gag them both. Finishing with just time enough to take up position behind the door before it began to open.

The evening sky was now dark, the room darker, with scarcely enough available light to make out the lone figure who had entered, a cool wind blowing in from behind. The lone dark figure closed the door and then reached to turn on the lights. Only Jack’s hand was there first. He flicked on the lights causing the figure wrapped in a cloak to recoil and crouch and thrust up a forearm as if to hide behind the curtaining effect of the wrap-a-round cloak.

“Halt! Police!” Jack shouted as Mihaela slowly began to rise. Her eyes were black and her face ghostly pale. Baring two yellowish fangs of a snarling attack dog, she rose up out of her crouch as if ready to leap up and fly across the room to take a bite out of their ass. Yuri and Egore cowered back in fright, Arina screamed and Jack stepped up into her field of view, smiled that “I-just-can’t-enough-of-this-shit” smile, and with a straight right lead smashed her right in the face.

Pow! The force of the blow sent her crashing into the wall then crumbling to the floor. Jack looked down at the spot where she had stood and saw two yellowish-white objects and a trace of blood on the floor.

“Huh!” he grunted as Abe rushed in with weapon drawn. Jack stooped down and picked them up to show to Abe. “Have a look.” He held them out.

"Caps!”

Abe knelt down beside him and closely examined the half-inch long porcelain canine spikes. “Yip! Sure are. So what’cha think?” Abe followed through playing out the part.

“About what?’ Jack replied.

“The dental work. Looks like shoddy work to me. Think you could recommend a new dentist?”

“Say,” Jack played with the thought. “Remember a few years back they caught that guy who worked in a meat plant who was killing them hookers?”

“Yeah, they called him The Butcher, am I right?

“Yeah, that’s the guy. Well, I heard he was now the dentist at Attica.”

“Spot on, my friend.” Abe chuckled. “After she wakes up I’ll pass on the tip.”

“So, ahm, tell me,” Abe followed. “I thought vampires weren’t supposed to bleed?”

“This one does, only she’s not the right one.”

“Oh?”

“Nope! this is Mihaela, am I right, Arina?”

“Yes, that is her,” Arina still stood half hidden, cowering behind a potted plant.

“So where's Dr. Vladirimescu?”

“Good question,” Jack replied. A moment later the telephone rang. Jack asked Arina to answer the call, which she did in Romanian to whoever was at the other end. Jack only picking up the occasional “da’s” and “nu’s (yes’s and no’s).”

“That was Vlady’s driver,” Arina said after hanging up the phone. “He said Vlady was on her way to the Flamingo and they were delayed on the expressway. He said Vlady would call back when she arrived.”

“Did he ask why you were here at the house?” Jack asked.

“Yes, I said I came to help Mihaela unpack.”

“You know,” Abe perked up, “from where’s she’s parked on the expressway, she’s still 40 minutes away from the club. Add another 30 minutes for possible delays and you’ve an hour to get there, Jack. You could use my car.”

“Call ahead and tell them I’m coming,” was all that need be said. A minute later, Jack was racing toward the George Washington Bridge. With the red light and siren clearing the way, he wasn’t about to let those vampires escape with one ounce of his friends blood.
 
 
Scene III: Cecil Makes his Move
 
 
Cecilia stood fronting the inspection hatch that centered the service entrance door. She took a moment to do a quick survey of all the things that could go wrong and, of course, her appearance. Both her sense of confidence and her appearance were primary tools in a woman’s arsenal. Whether dressed like a cleaning woman or a starlet preparing to walk onto a stage, presentation was the key. Something she had already learned during her short stint as a woman.

Cecil of the other hand felt a tremble in his hand. Likewise a flush, the result of his irregular, intermittent breathing and a wavering heart that grew fainter by the second. Those doubts that Cecilia could not afford, he now owned. He was feeling the strain reach overload, his anxiety no less taxing than the bills she now expected him to pay.

Nervously Cecil reached down to feel the outline of his gun strapped to his thigh while Cecilia smoothed the contour of her long golden locks. With all final adjustments made, she wet her lips, tested her smile then reached for the buzzer. It was a moment of truth. One she bravely looked unflinchingly in the eye. Or “eyes” in this case; those of the man on the other side of the door peering out at the picture on her ID. Juxtaposed beside that ID was her gleaming white smile and a pair of freshly moistened lips to match.

Cecil heard the dead bolt inside slide open with a screech. Not unlike the one he felt building up inside as Cecilia dutifully picked up her pail, grabbed hold of her mop and stepped inside without so much as a second glance from the man. Without looking back she followed the narrow hallway lugging the mop and pail until she encountered a second door with an “Exit Only” sign and a dead bolt lock that was unlatched. Pulling an ear to the door, she heard the muffed sounds of music and voices on the other side.

Again she stopped to take stock of herself. She took a deep breath, smoothed the contour of her long wavy hair and again, tested her smile. Then with the steely nerves of an aerialist walking a tight rope, she opened the door.

If what he had seen out in the front lounge was cold fish served on a platter of mediocrity, than this place was a connoisseur’s gastronomical delight. Only for gamblers, and not some cut-rate, dingy back room gaming joint neither. This was the high rollers shanghai junction with all the high heeled, g-string wearing bells and whistles shuffling the cards.

The layout was clear to him now. The grand old Fox Theater had been divided into two parts. The lobby had been turned into what was now the front lounge. The palatial auditorium remained as it always had been - the scene behind the scene. The place where the well-heeled showcased their innocence while toying with the sinful. Only it wasn’t the sin of watching risqué turn of the century theatrical productions that these folks were indulging. Oh no, this sin cost them five thousands a pop for membership and the chips started out at a hundred dollars each.

That was by design of course, to attract only the right kind of cliental. As in those with enough money and pull to know how to keep it quiet. After all, the first order of business in a place like this was to make sure the cops weren’t in the loop. In return, this particular “By Invitation Only” club offered the goods aplenty. Incentive enough to keep their collective mouths shut, with the money and pull to do it.

With its rows of gaming tables, marble colonnades and the sweeping tiered balconies above, it was a page torn from the script of Monte Carlo, down to the glitzy band that played the musical interlude in the backdrop. What’s more, the place was packed. Bumper to bumper they clogged the isles and honeycombed around the tables where the turn of a card or the roll of the dice could make you a fortune, or a beggar in the blink of an eye.

“Hey, show time is over," the voice of a very large man in one of those three piece silk suits cut thought her spell. "There's a clean up in section 6."

Cecilia acknowledged the call with a nod then hurried off in a direction, not knowing if it was even the right way to go. Along the way, she saw a cleaning closet with a “Maintenance” placard on the door.

“The perfect place to start,” she reasonably presumed, then ducked inside to rid herself of her smock and cap. She hid the clothes in a towel bin and stored her ID in her clutch for safe keeping. Then after freshening up in the mirror, she again tested her smile before opening the door to make her entrance.

Outside Cecilia was just another high roller. Free to mill about as she chose. Feeling as though she had accomplished the impossible, Cecilia smiled and Cecil began to relax and regain his composure. Wearing the “I-told-you-so” grin, Cecilia reached out and grabbed a glass of pink Champaign off the service tray of a passing Flamingo girl, then wheeled about carefree as if waltzing through a golden meadow on a warm spring day.

Cecil tried to warn her to stay away from the perimeter where he saw a majority of the security lurking, but Cecilia would have none of it. The world was now her oyster, and feeling no bounds she advanced toward a woman she saw standing in a shadowy alcove beneath a low hanging balcony. Exactly why she chose to do so, Cecil hadn’t a clue.

Perhaps it was because the obviously intoxicated woman with a gleeful smile looked so thoroughly harmless. Or perhaps it was because the woman was waving, signaling for her to come over as if she knew her.

“Francine,” she wondered? She certainly has all the makings. This is obviously the sort of place she’d bump into her as well. “It must be her, wanting to say hello.”

The woman standing beneath the mezzanine was a tall, thin, elegant creature, dressed in a silk body shaping red dress that wrapped as snuggly across her ankles as it did about her preponderant bust. She also wore a hat, with a large plume of feathers in back, and a red net veiling draped over her face. Her arms up to her elbow were encased in matching red silk gloves, and between two out stretched fingers, a cigarette holder as long and lean and hot as a fireplace stoker.

Cecil had no way of knowing whether it was Francine or not. Still the logic of Cecilia’s reasoning baffled him. If anything, Francine seemed the type who’d want to do him in rather than want to fraternize over a cocktail. So as Cecilia advanced through the crowd, Cecil had his hand to his side, his fingers nervously rolling close to where he had his weapon strapped to his thigh. Especially when Cecilia had drawn close enough to determine it wasn’t Francine at all.

Of course, at that point the logical thing to do would have been to ignore her and walk off in another direction. Not Cecilia though. Oh no, she was so full of herself the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. She felt her armor impervious. Her appearance was her shield, her confidence her spear.

Dahhhling!” she purred and swooned over Cecilia as if ready to have her for lunch. “Haven’t we met? At the theater perhaps?”

Cecilia, like Cecil, hadn’t a voice to answer. Only her hands and the shaking of her head to say “No, you must have the wrong person.” Which should have been enough under normal circumstances to deter any woman, whether expressing a desire to know her on a more personal basis or not. Not this woman however. Nope! Instead she leaned in close with a haunting smile and a breathy whisper, “Have you been inside this evening, dahhhling?” Signaling with her eyes the direction she meant.

Cecilia followed those eyes deeper into the recesses of the alcove where a number of Flamingo girls stood in the shadows as if waiting for someone or something. Though again, without a voice of her own she hadn’t the means to extricate herself from this impossible entanglement. If she spoke she was toast. She could only stand and smile and silently wait for the divine intervention she desperately needed.

“Oh, then may I recommend that pretty puss over there." She nodded in the direction of a young woman standing just to their right wearing the same pink feathered scanty halter as did the others. It was Tatiana, the girl he was looking for, and she matched her picture perfectly. Only the proverbial picture worth a thousand words could not describe the temptress standing beneath the faint pink light.

"Take it from me darling, ‘he’ is superb." She spoke, her voice quite resolute in tone and purposeful in the emphasis she had placed on the word “He!" It was as though she had fired off a weapon, the gun blast resounding between Cecil’s ears, the bullet ricocheting inside his head. "Oh yes, he’s the prettiest prancing pony to gallop center rink.”

“Come, I'll introduce you," she smiled, turned Cecilia around to face another woman who now stood close-in behind. With gray hair piled in a bun, the woman was dressed in a gray skirt with matching vest that looked rather regimented. She also looked very much in command with the phalanx of guards standing behind her.

“Look out,” the lady in red whispered, “this one bites!”

"Good work, Detra," the vamp in gray said while nodding in the direction of the security force already zeroing in on Cecilia and Cecil from all directions.

"It was nothing, Vlady, if not too easy." Then she held out that long cigarette holder, sucked in a long draw and blew a smoke ring in Cecilia’s face.

"Dumb Cop!" she hissed.

"Bring him, quickly," Vlady commanded, leading the way to a room located not far from where Cecil had originally entered. In her wake, two of her henchmen carried Cecil along, his heels dragging behind. A moment later he was tossed into a windowless room and forced to sit on a chair placed in the center. In the room with him - Tatiana, Vlady, her two handpicked thugs and a woman he didn’t recognize.

"You are police, no?" Vlady asked in a most casual state, smiling prettily as she paced back and forth.

"I'm told you have been following Tatiana, yes?” Again Cecil didn’t answer.

“I also know why,” she leaned in, her gaze intense. “Don't think yourself clever for finding your way in. I have arranged it! Olga," she snapped her fingers, to which the unknown woman stepped forward in reply.

“You know this woman, no? You should. Her name is Olga Randa, the lady whose identification you carry with you.” Cecil felt the trap snap shut. "We have been following you since you first contacted Olga. She told us of you plans.”

“Oh yes, I know, you think you were simply following Michael and Tatiana, and only by chance have stumbled into all this. It is a pity for you really, because as I’ve said, you’re being here is not by accident at all. I’ve arranged it, to solve a two-fold problem I have.”

“You see, Michael had nothing to do with Sonya jumping out of that window. She jumped at her own accord, but I knew you’d pursue him regardless, convinced of his guilt. I couldn’t have that. For one, it would have been a danger to me, and two, it would have been a danger to him should his identity be known. So I lured you in to stop you.”

"In a way," she chuckled, "I almost find myself grateful for your services."

"My services?"

“Oh yes, but I'll not bore you with the obvious. Let me just say what you've done in your own unwitting way is help seal away the many faces of Michael even further from the light. Michael, Michelle and Tatiana are all the same you see, and just as you do not know who I am, neither will the world know anything of ‘Mircea’ when it becomes his turn to bear the ring."

“Lady,” Cecil pleaded, “would it help if I told you I haven't the slightest idea about what you're talking about."

"Of course not!” she replied with some confidence. “Nobody knows that but me. Nevertheless, it was only a matter of time before you figured it all out.”

“Like I said, I had a two-fold problem. The need to keep both my business and Michael’s identity a secret, and to that end, you have served me well. Oh, and you needn't worry about your partner in the van. Soon the two of you will be planted side by side in a grave you shall dig with your own hands. Minus your heads of course,” She chuckled. “Those I will impale and put on display to scare away the crows.”

“Now, I think we should be done with this. Gregerio!" again she snaps her fingers. "Take him out the service door. Milich, you take two others and secure his partner. We’ll take them to Waterston where the others have gathered and wait.” Then she turned and hurriedly walked out of the room, taking Olga with her. “I will wait for you in the van.”

---

 
Acknowledgement: I need thank Amber Talamasca for her contributions and Amelia French, for her support and guidance. I’d love to thank my editor as well, but I’m afraid my dear friend cs. is a bit too modest to accept the accolades so richly deserved.
 
 ©2009 by josie ©. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 
To Be Continued...

---

 
The Legal Stuff: Murphy's Law: Book II - Red Harvest  © 2009 by josie.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

---

 
 

 
 
Scene IV: Broken Arrow
 
 
Jack drove slowly past the Flamingo. Other than a small crowd milling about outside everything looked quiet and normal. As did the van that was parked a half block further on. No sign as yet of a response from the department, though from the stillness he could sense preparations were already underway. He parked nearby and got out to make contact with Arn. Confident that whatever operation the department was planning would be coordinated though the point Arn had already established.

He found Arn hunkered down in back of the van with Harrington. He’d been sent to coordinate the operation and told Jack a perimeter was now being established. In 15 minutes the assault group would be ready to make their move. Harrington showed him an outline of what was being planned on a map spread out on the table.

The red arrows indicated the main thrust would be going through the front entrance. That fit normal operational procedures, though Arn disagreed with the plan. He saw it as a more circuitous route, where the bulk of the security was focused. Though it was clean no one was listening even though he knew the layout better than anyone else. Again, that too fit normal operational procedures of a top down command with their collective heads in the air rather than on the ground.

“Personally I think Arn is on to something here,” Jack interrupted Harrington’s summation. “Speed is the key here, and if you’re tied up trying to work your way through the front, you’ve already relinquished the advantage.”

“No,” Harrington followed. “It’d be all that and more just to bust through that side door.”

“Perhaps,” Jack followed, obviously having something else in mind. “Well, one thing is certain. We’re not doing much good here. I’m going out to take up a position. When the whistle blows, I want to be first though that side entrance door.”

“Yeah, okay,” was all Harrington could say. He knew what Jack was feeling. If he had a partner trapped inside, he would likely do the same. In this line of work this is where the rubber hit the road, and like Jack, he’d want to be first in the line of fire as well.

Jack stepped outside and Arn followed. “Where do you think you’re going, Arn?” Jack asked.

“I’m following you in.”

“No, it’s my responsibility, not yours. Besides, we’ve got to move quickly.”

“Jack, please! I’m the one who put the bug in his ear. He wouldn’t be in there if not for me.”

“It’s too dangerous, Arn, sorry!”

“Dangerous? Jack you’ve met my wife. I’m set to retire in a week and what then? Look, after 26 years, please don’t deny me this.”

Jack hadn’t a need to read between the lines, nor time to worry about what might become of the man if he were to say no. “Okay, take up a position in front. Only stay out of sight until help arrives.”

“Yeah Jack, thanks.”

“Oh, and Arn, no heroics,” he said as he loaded his 45 then set off to position himself exactly where he wanted to be; At the top of the stairs, standing alongside that rear entrance door with his revolver in hand.

When he arrived he opened up the rear of the cleaning van and quickly latched onto a bucket before rushing 3 steps at a time up the stairs. His plan was to wait out of sight beside the door. Then just as the assault was about to begin, he’d toss the bucket down the steps hoping the ruckus would draw out the guard. If it worked, he’d have the guard secured and the advantage of speed on his side.

In sum, his plan was to move swiftly and with cunning, and it might have worked if the door hadn’t unexpectedly opened up. The guard had opened the door just a sliver to flick a cigarette butt down the steps. It wasn’t much of an opportunity. Plus with 10 minutes yet to go before the division moved in, the timing was piss poor. Still, you’ve got to take what you’re given. So with the speed of a trap springing shut, he pressed his revolver to his temple.

“Your next word will be your last,” was all Jack had to say. A moment later he had him cuffed. He then led him down the steps and stuffed him into the back of the van. With the side entrance door now open and the guard out of the way, he liked his chances of pulling it off. Only that’s where his luck ran out. As he exited the van and started to close the rear door, someone inside the cab started it up, threw it into reverse and stepped on the gas.

It’d happened so fast and so unexpectedly he scarcely had time to turn about and jump out of the way. Only jumping out of the way of a rapidly accelerating vehicle bearing down on you is a lot easier to say than do. Something Jack soon found out. As the rear wheels screeched he jumped, fell to the ground and rolled to get out of the way. He’d all but escaped from under the van, but his right leg had not. The left rear tire had caught him, shattering his leg in the process. Through the agony and the pain, he looked down at the blood that swirled around that anomalous protrusion. Even worse, he’d lost his gun.

Now broken, like his plan, it was clear neither were going anywhere . . .
 
 
Scene V: Out of the Corner of an Eye
 
 
With Vlady now gone, Gregorio pulled Cecil up off the chair and started to haul him out the door. Only Cecil was not quite so ready to go. In seems in the process of leaving under his own power, he faked a stumble and stepped out of his shoe.

"I can't walk with just one heel," Cecil pleaded his case, waiting for Gregorio to take the bait and reach for that fallen shoe. Which he did, giving Cecil the first, and probably his last opportunity to reach down for that single shot derringer.

Then with a move so quick he could scarcely believe it himself, he had his hand wrapped around that gun.

"Hold it right there," he waved it between the two men. Hurriedly he slipped his shoe back on and then cautiously worked his way over toward Michael. He wrapped a forearm around his neck and pressed the gun to his ribs, taking that classic hostage pose.

“Okay fellas, you know the routine.” He shouted, then added, “Down on the floor!" which might have sounded a bit corny, almost laughably cliché. Only laughing at his use of that well-turned phrase was the last thing on his mind as he slowly and cautiously backed out of that room latched on to Michael, his one and only lifeline.

“Remember,” he shouted his parting words, “If you follow, I’ve nothing to lose.”

Amazingly that divine intervention he had been praying for answered the call. What else could explain how he and Michael managed to maneuver out in the open unnoticed? The distance was less than twenty feet to that rear exit door, but in a room filled with security it might as well have been a thousand. Yet somehow he made it. Only that’s where his luck ran out. He had been spotted by a guard already charging toward him with a full head of steam.

“Halt! Police!” Cecil yelled taking his gun off Michael, giving him the chance to slip out of his grasp and run through that rear exit door to escape the building.

Cecil didn’t have a chance to follow, nor time to think about whether he was prepared to use that one bullet if given the opportunity. The man was on him too quickly, tackling him and knocking the gun out of his hand. Leaving him to fight a battle he could not win, and worse, any moment others birds of prey would be swooping in to feast on the harvest.

It didn’t look good. He was out muscled, out of time and out of bullets — save one. A shoe; as in stiletto, long, sharp and deadly - which by chance had fallen off during the course of the scuffle and landed next to his hand. All he needn’t was one clear shot. An opportunity he soon got, his aim fair and true, hitting him square in the eye with that steel pointed heel. The man rolled off clutching his eye in pain giving Cecil the moment he needed to jump up, run through the door and latch the dead bolt lock just as four others arrived.

With one more door to go he ran toward the rear entrance door . . .
 
 
Meanwhile, outside the club . . .
 
 
Jack lie sprawled out, his leg shattered. Now, all but a motionless target he looked up and saw a woman step out of the van. It was the same woman he had seen in that picture with Michelle. It was Vlady, wrapped in a long black cloak, clutching a broomstick she banished like a make-shift spear. Then standing over him she peered down through the shadowy hollows of her raven-like eyes.

“You too are police, yes? I didn’t know of you. No matter. It’s too late for him and too late for you.”

She raised that make-shift spear and was about to act on her words when Tatiana came running out the door. She stopped, looked up and smiled. “Mircea! Veni” (come)!

“Yes mistress,” Tatiana replied.

Jack looked up and saw Tatiana advance down toward him. Only it wasn’t just her. She was a multiple of one, and with each advancing step Jack could see pieces of them all. The Michelle he’d seen in that photo, the Michael he had met in that Sanger Street apartment, and the Tatiana he’d seen at the Korean cleaners.

Plus another he had not met as yet. His eyes were dark, his face ghostly pale. It was the face of an ethereal presence that lived in the twilight. That place between the real and none, the good and the evil. Where there exists no more conscious thought than that possessed by a Great White moving in for the kill. It was as tangible as those ravenous eyes, and as real as the hiss and the snarl. Mircea’s face! The new Michael trying to break out, with each step forward growing increasingly stronger, though as yet, did not rule.

Now standing beside Vlady, she handed Tatiana the make-shift spear. Then she rose up and stretched out her arms wing-like, as if to take flight. There she stood peering down, the black cloak draped down from her wing-swept arms, the lust of a raven in her cold black eyes.

“Mihai! Ridică-te!” (Rise up) she hissed.

“Michael!” Jack reached out and Michael lowered his eyes.

“Michelle! Soma tău forţă!” (summon thy strength) she baited.

“Michelle!” Jack whispered while Michelle stood there and grieved.

“Tatiana! Soma tău putere!” (summon thy power) she scowled.

“Tatiana!” Jack implored. Tatiana’s tears rained, filled with disappointment and regret.

Then to the face who would consume them all she commanded . . .

“Mircea! Este a ta de a devora!” (It’s yours to devour) she compelled.

“Mircea!” Jack echoed and Mircea still stood motionless.

Though he knew it was only a matter of time. Vlady’s presence was to strong and Mircea’s heart was already too cold, too dark and too distant to change that.

“Michael!” He again reached out like a forgiving man, broken, but not fallen. A man at peace with himself, lying maimed and defenseless, yet victorious in his defeat as Vlady compelled him to swoop down and feast on the bounty of the Red Harvest.

Only he saw something else too, out of the corner of his eye . . .
 

*          *          *
 
Cecil ran full steam toward that rear exit door. When he arrived he found the door open and the guard gone. Below, at the bottom of the steps he saw Vlady and Tatiana with a weapon in his hand and Jack on the ground under attack.

Without thinking, he hopped atop the handrail and then without concern as to whether such a head first leap like that was even survivable, he executed the perfect Swan dive to save his friend . . .

“Jaaaaa-ck!” came a frantic cry, sounding not unlike the caw of a ravenous crow swooping down from the dark sky above. As Vlady loomed like a vulture preparing to feast upon his carcass, so too did that swooping black blur race down toward Vlady. Traversing the distance like a falling star, landing square on her back where she imploded upon impact with the ground.

Jack looked over at the sprawling heap. It had been a calamitous event. Especially for that Vlachian vulture who had been standing in the middle of the road and failed to look up to see the oncoming truck. It didn’t look good for the fallen star who’d ridden her down either. Obviously a fall like that was bound to have had some deleterious effects, whether cushioned from the full impact or not. Still, with no immediate signs of movement, he feared even worse.

Though slowly, miraculously, one small twitch at a time that picture began to change. Until finally that fallen star did rise up her head, albeit with a bloody mouth and grinning a grin absent a tooth.

“I got her, Jack!” the words came out slurred and as disjointed as his jaw appeared to be.

“Cecil!” Jack voiced his disbelief, his head in a swoon. “Is that you?”

“At your service, sir,” Cecil sounded rather punch drunk, and with his eyes rolling around inside his head, not entirely in control of his wits.

“At your service?” Jack repeated to himself. “It’s a wonder he’d even managed to survive the fall. Courageous,” for sure, he lauded the heroics, but even faint as he was, he wasn’t going to let Cecil know that.

Instead he quipped with a groan riddled with pain, “Well, damn it all son. You were too quick on the trigger. I had him right where I wanted him.”

“Sorry boss,” Cecil cocked his pretty blond head and slurred. “You want me to go back up and try again?” He grimaced, sucked in some blood then offered up another toothless smile.

The pain that shot through Jack might have been worth the laugh had he not spotted the four thugs who had been in pursuit of Cecil now standing at the top of the steps. They were already racing down toward them when the meter ran out on those 15 minutes Harrington was waiting to start the assault.

Lamps lit up the sky and in rushed the 3^rd precinct armed to the teeth, swarming in like ants on the march over a decaying carcass. Jack shifted his focus back toward Michael, err, Tatiana, err, Michelle who was now kneeling down beside him.

“Hey over here,” Michael signaled toward one of the advancing officers, “Get some medical help over here quick.”

Jack looked up and smiled at the boy dressed as a flamingo girl. The shadowy hollows of his eyes didn’t appear so dark anymore. Nor did he look so ghostly pale. Hardly the harbinger of death, though Jack had always known that.

“Are you alright?’ Michael asked.

“Yes,” he wanted to say, but couldn’t say. He suddenly felt overtaken by faintness and his rapidly tunneling senses made putting words to his conscious thought no longer possible. The best he could do was look up and watch as one medic now on the scene supplied him with oxygen and medication. While a pair of others wrapped a splint around his shattered leg before hoisting him onto the stretcher. Beside him another team worked on Cecil and what was left of Vlady. Then when ready, they were taken to the waiting ambulance.

Only the much needed infusion of oxygen had managed to clear Jack’s head. It also infused new life into his weakened state. Leastwise enough to reach up and tear the inhalator off his face.

“I don’t need this, boy!” he grumbled and scowled at the medic walking at his side.

“Yes you do, sir,” he sought to replace it, but before he could wrangle it free from Jack’s grasp, out came, “Hey, you ain’t by chance Romanian, are you son?” He eyeballed him with a steely-eye glare.

“No, sir, I’m pure blooded Italian.”

“Open up son and smile for me,” which the medic did, while Jack, overwrought with suspicion thoroughly scrutinized his two eye teeth.

“Huh!” he grunted, “No caps!”

“How’s that, sir?’

“No caps! I guess I got them all.”
 
 
Scene VI: An Ocean of White Blossoms
 
 
St. Marks Hospital, 6 a.m . . .

Jack hobbled out his room and down the hall toward Cecil’s. It wasn’t his first time on crutches, but no matter how your cut it, that step-swing-step glide is slow going with a cast running thigh high weighing you down. Still, if you think he was looking for sympathy, think again. He was armed to the teeth with his dry wit and cynicism as he walked in and saw Abe, Arina, Michael and Carl Rutherford beside Cecil’s bedside.

“About time you showed up,” Jack curtly blurted out. “I thought you knew how to read a map.” He rattled off, and continued on with that step-swing-step glide.

“I do.” Abe seemed pleased that the medications hadn’t dulled his friend’s wit. “We’ve been here. We’ve followed you ever step of the way.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Jack shook his hand.

“Good to see you on your feet.” Abe followed. “So how did you manage to escape from under Nurse Cruella’s all-knowing eye?”

“Evil nurse Thorndike? Easy,” Jack opened up his hand to show Abe the sleeping pills she had given him. “Once I found the combination.”

Abe laughed, “On the bottom of the top desk drawer?”

“Yup, right out of the text book.” Jack massaged the tortured line of thought.

He then turned toward Cecil, wrapped up in bandages lying upon the bed. With a step-swing-step he inched in a bit closer then delivered that time-honored punch to the forearm. Jack’s way of telling a man he was someone he wholly respected. “Abe, meet Cecil Benover, one heck of a cop. Cecil, meet Abe.”

“We’ve met,” Abe answer for him. Mainly because Cecil had his mouth wired to support the fractured jaw he had sustained in the fall, along with a concussion and a fractured rib and some teeth. Needless to say, he wasn’t quite himself, though the doctors did manage to dissolve that glue. His scalp looked red and peeled and his face looked none too pretty, but at least the swelling had gone down enough to see the old Cecil under there, somewhere.

“He looks great in a dress too,” Jacked smiled. “You make me proud, kid.”

Jack at last turned to Michael. He smiled at Arina who was holding his hand sitting at the foot of Cecil’s bed.

“How’s Michael doing?” he asked and then, “Ah, I mean . . .” he sought to correct himself after realizing his mistake. Only he was beaten to it.

“Michelle!” Michelle called out her own name.

“Yes, Michelle is doing well,” Arina returned his smile.

Jack wanted to kick himself for having made the mistake. Besides the obvious fact that she looked like the girl next door, she had also made a conscious effort to present herself as one. In fact she looked ever bit that vision he had seen bouncing down the steps of Lindquist Hall a few days before.

Her golden blonde ponytail was arched high, like a prancing young filly on promenade. It was a wig of course, but the fullest of her pink and white gingham dress looked just the same. As did the eagerness he saw painted on her parted, red stained lips. Then there was that whiff of teen spirit filled with the optimistic spirit of youth.

That was the young woman he saw wrapped around Arina’s affections. The boy, the girl who’d tasted that lush red fruit, so seductive in its allure, so sinfully wild to enjoy. Yet despite everything Vlady had taken from her, the one thing she could not take was her will to resist lusting after still more. A temptation she had resisted, and in the process, she saved herself and Jack as well.

Of course all that was behind her now, as was Vlady. The power of her persona, her chemistry and her evil machinations that once held such sway were now gone, dead and buried along with her history. It had evaporated into thin air like the dark apparition that once was, but in truth, was never really there. Only the stench of her evil and the consequences of her hate remained; though no longer in Michelle.

Once ghostly pale, her eyes so dark, she was now vibrant, alive, with a “joie de vivre” as luminous as the rose in her cheeks. Yes, true, it was in a form Vlady had created, but clearly this was not a face of her making. This was a new face, born from the essence that was now free to run through her veins once Vlady’s deadly venom had been flushed out. A face of her own choosing that was now free to flourish, and with Arina’s help, to become one with herself again.

“I’ve got something to show you, Jack” Carl’s voice cut through his thoughts. With Vlady’s ring in hand, he handed it to Jack.

“How’d you get this?”

“Abe grabbed it, States evidence.”

“You saw her?” Jack asked.

“Yes, she looked very mortal and very undone.”

“Did Arina see her?”

“Yes, she was with me and Abe. She got a good look.”

“She spat too!” Abe chuckled, looked down and pointed to his shoe. “Just like my mama used to say, ‘I spit on your bones’.”

“Good, I’m glad. She needed to see more than anyone. Right, Arina?” He turned to ask.

“Yes,” she spoke as if finally free of the burden she carried. “She was mortal. She had always been mortal. She was an evil, a pestilence. Now she is just one less for the world to suffer.”

“Good, now you need to get that message out.”

“This might help,” Carl cut in. “Look at it!” He pointed to the ring. “Look what’s inscribed inside the band.”

Jack did, bringing it up close and examining it with one eye. “It says, made in West Germany.”

“Yes, it’s a fake! It couldn’t be anymore than 10 years old.”

"A fake!” Jack shook his head, not wanting to believe a man of his stature could possibly entertain the notion it wasn’t. “Of course it’s a fake. It was all a con game, professor. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I read the Marquee before I paid me 10 cent admission.” He recited what Jack had once told him. “However, I’m the type of guy who needs to see it for himself. If the guy behind the mask isn’t revealing himself, I need to sift through the clues until the irrefutable evidence reveals itself.”

“Besides,” he went on, “it isn’t important that I know. It's important that they know," Carl looked over at Arina and Michelle.

“Spot on, professor,” Jack followed, then reached over and placed the ring in Arina’s hand. “See, there are no hexes, no voodoo, no vampires looming in the night.”

“It's yours, Arina.” Jack followed. “Keep it as a memento, or do what is right and show the others that they are now free, no longer bound to the past." Then he turned toward Michelle. “No one can give back to you the years you've lost. I know the wounds are deep and time alone cannot bring them to heal. But love can.”

“Arina,” Jack took up her hand. “Michelle isn’t the one. At least not the one Vlady tried to convince you she was. She is however your one and only chance to bring an end to your suffering. Take care of her Arina. She's more precious than all the rings in the world."

With that she cried, and Michelle, the victim of so much hate and deceit, reached out to hold her. No longer was her heart too dark, too distant or too cold. Vlady’s spell broken, she was again whole, a single embodiment of a beautiful young girl, with a voice as poignant as her smile.

“Mama!” Michelle uttered, and “Mama,” Jack’s voice echoed.

“A private moment?” Abe asked after a long silent pause.

“You think?” Jack replied, then asked, “So, where’s Arn?”

“Upstairs, room 1430.”

“He didn’t . . .?”

“Oh no, he did exactly as you said. They found him holding the guys in the lounge at bay. Only the one he didn’t see got the jump on him. He smashed Arn in the head with a bottle before Arn managed to regain the upper hand.”

“Tough Irishmen. Now I know how he managed to survive 31 years with that wife of his. Is he hurt bad?” Jack wanted to know.

“A nasty gash, but I understand he has a pretty thick skull.”

“Yeah, you got that right. You been up to visit him yet?”

“Not this morning. I was just fixing to go up when you came in.”

“So what’s keeping you?”

“You,” Abe laughed. “You’re slowing me down, old man.”

“Look who’s calling who old.” Jack replied, already step-swing-stepping on one leg on his way out the door. “You’re the one legging it out in that cushy job raking up them cherry blossoms.”

“You mean up there in Waterston, where the ocean of white blossoms dot the landscape against the rolling green hills beyond?” Abe echoed what Jack had once said to him.

“Nicely put, Abe,” another step-swing-step further along.”

“Your words,” Abe added.

Yes, those were his words, a memory from his boyhood. More an utterance, really, that Abe had remembered him saying on their drive along River Road. Something quite personal that when spoken, brought to mind the vision of his mother sitting on the blanket amidst the snow-like pedals that covered the ground.

That vision and all that had transpired in the last few days weighted on him deeply.

“Yes,” he wanted to say, but couldn’t say as the tidal wave of memories swept over him. Like his step-swing-step, his thoughts swayed between the joyousness in Michelle and Arina’s embrace, to the regret for having lost touch with the beauty of that moment beneath the cherry trees so long ago.

“I admit, it is beautiful,” Abe kept pace with that step-swing-step glide.

Maybe it was that he really did need that medication. Or maybe it was that he could no longer keep his emotions in check. Whatever the reason, as he replayed those once lost memories, the beauty in his mother’s voice eclipsed even that of his friend’s. “Yes,” she had said, “the blossoms are beautiful . . .”

And “Yes,” Jack finally managed to utter. “. . . and later will come the harvest of the lush sweet fruit, sinfully wild to enjoy.”

“You gotta be careful though,” Abe followed in reply. “Eat too much and you’ll be bellyaching like them crows.”

“There’s the hitch, Abe.” Jack choked through watery eyes. “In every little sin there’s always some disappointment and regret.”

“So I’ve been told, my friend, so I’ve been told!”

Step-swing-step!

. . . Jack hobbled across the parade field on his crutches, just as obstinate as ever and still clinging to his pig-headed notion of self-sufficiency. . .

End of Part II

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Acknowledgement: I need thank Amber Talamasca for her contributions and Amelia French, for her support and guidance. I’d love to thank my editor as well, but I’m afraid my dear friend cs. is a bit too modest to accept the accolades so richly deserved.
 
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