Текст книги "Stormy Weather"

Автор книги: Steve Rollins

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Chapter Three

“Rache,” Donovan was pulling his jacket back on as he pushed his head through his secretary's office door. “I'm going on the road, first to see Albert; I'll see Sedakis this afternoon and will head down to deal with this Justine Lavoie thing when I'm done with Albert.”

“Yes, Mister Donovan,” she chirped. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mister Donovan?”

Donovan shook his head. “Just tell everyone I'm busy all day.”

He took the elevator down and walked straight to his Jag. He fired the engine up and raced out of the parking garage. He turned onto the I278 that led to the harbor and immediately had to hit the brakes. The traffic was a nightmare, as usual. He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. He was impatient. The letter was burning a hole in the inner pocket of his jacket. He took it out and looked at the lettering again. He could not see any fingerprints, but it was definitely blood. Someone had taken a calligraphy pen, dipped it in blood and written the note. That would explain the dripping as well. It was probably not held straight. He noticed now, staring at the letter in the middle of the traffic, that the hand was very fine. It was a very nicely written hand. Not many people had good handwriting these days, he thought. A pity penmanship was not really taught in school anymore. He shook the thought out of his head and pressed the gas pedal down. Seconds later he hit the brakes as the car in front of him stopped.

It took him an hour to make his way to the harbor, but then he raced through the remainder of the traffic to finally pull up by the side of a warehouse where an ambulance and several police cars stood. He saw the SUV with the inverted flowerpot and figured that must be Albert's car. He jumped out of the open top E-type and walked to the door of the warehouse. An FBI tape was tied across the door opening. He looked in and ducked under the tape. “Albert!”

A woman with a long wavy pony tail and an FBI jacket rushed toward him and had already begun pushing him back behind the tape when Albert showed up. “What are you doing here?” he asked him gruffly. As an answer, Donovan pulled the letter from his pocket and held it out for Albert behind the wavy-haired agent's back. Albert grasped it and took the letter out of the envelope. He took a single look at it and he laid a hand on the woman's shoulder. “It's alright, he can come in here. He's a former agent as well, so he knows the rules.”

The agent stopped pushing Donovan back and stepped out of his way. Donovan straightened his suit jacket and gave the woman a wink. Then he followed Albert, who was already walking to the back of the warehouse.

Donovan had seen his share of horror in the FBI, but he was shocked by what he saw. Something that had clearly been a man lay close to the wall in a puddle of blood. The coroner and his assistant were still taking pictures. “Dear God...” Donovan muttered when he came closer. “What the hell have they done?”

The coroner looked at him and shook his head. “Back with us, Donovan?” He looked at the screen of his camera again. “I really have seen it all now.”

Albert came to stand next to Donovan. “Messy, eh?”

“What the fuck is this?” Donovan still watched the horror scene in complete amazement.

“I believe they call this a Blood Eagle,” the coroner said casually. “Viking execution. They cut through the skin at his back, broke his ribs, spread them out and pulled out the lungs to lay across the broken ribs so it looks like wings. They then left the victim to die like that.” The man shook his head. “I hope to find they did this post-mortem. I don't even want to try and imagine the pain he must have gone through otherwise.”

“The murderer must have been filled with rage to do this,” Albert remarked.

The coroner looked at him. “You'd think that, but this is a very calculated and detailed way to kill. Even if done after death, it might have required a lot of hate, but not anger. You have to be in control to do something like this.”

Donovan suddenly felt sick and swiftly ran to the door of the warehouse. The back door opened out on the dock and he breathed deep the smell of the sea and of dirty ship fuel. “Dear God...” he said again, trying to stop himself from throwing up. He was used to some things, but this just made him sick.

Albert came to stand next to him. “Like something out of one of your gangster stories.”

“You're sure it's Denny Lang?” Donovan asked his friend as he laid his hands on his neck, pulling his collar open so he could draw deep breaths.

“Yeah. He matches the pictures and we found his ID in his pocket. Checked the fingerprints, but they're not on record, meaning it isn't Quinn.”

“Good.”

“Give your letter to the good old Doc as evidence. He can analyze the blood. If it's the same, well…” Albert shrugged and nodded to the car. “Got your file over in the car. Oh, and anyone else touch the letter?”

“Envelope will be useless. My secretary and the mailman touched it. Everyone in the post office probably. I alone touched the letter.” Donovan was still shaking and trying to breathe away his nausea. “Fucking hell...” he swore.

“Yeah, it’s brutal.”

They walked around the warehouse, rather than back through the crime scene and finally Donovan's nausea went away as Albert pulled open the door of the car. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a plastic folder. “Quinn Lang. Printed it out for you this morning.” He looked around for a moment and then added, “I didn't give this to you, of course.”

“Of course.”

Donovan did not look into the folder and he just walked back to his Jag, not saying goodbye to his former partner. Albert didn’t mind, he himself was distracted by the corpse in the warehouse.

The Jag's engine flared into life and Donovan drove off carefully. He turned back onto the main road and the E-type carried him back into the city. As he drove on the road back to the office, he realized the traffic was better and that he was supposed to do something else.

He turned off toward the north and headed back to the city through Brooklyn Heights. His own house stood close to the Manhattan Bridge, but in the quieter area; he preferred his home to be quiet. He drove past his exit. He was heading toward the celebrity-dense area of Williamsburg, which sat under the Williamsburg Bridge, but was quite different from what he had a taste for these days.

He drove past the Red Hook container port, a reminder that he was on the clock; the expanse of the container yard felt like at least a mile, but it wasn’t. He saw his exit come up and turned off into Williamsburg. He kept right and found himself in another world in less than 20 minutes; streets undergoing construction that would modernize and gentrify the old Brooklyn buildings. A left brought him into a narrow street not made for cars; at the end was his destination.

He got out of his Jag and found, finally, that his shock had gone. He felt like himself again and was able to put the horror of the morning out of his head. He walked past a white Audi RS6 he had parked behind. He admired it for a second. It was a good car and quite understated. He nodded approvingly and kept his eyes on it as he pushed the intercom button that was practically in the street. There were four buzzers labeled ‘Longy’ that covered the four penthouse apartments on the top two floors. They were converted specially for the ten-year lease the current occupant had signed last fall.

A few moments later he heard music blaring through the intercom and a girl's voice. “Yo.” There was a very light hint of a French accent in the voice.

“Miss Lavoie? It's Storm Donovan. Can you let me in?”

“Who?”

“Storm Donovan. Your attorney?”

“Sure, sure babe, I'll let you in. You can come and help out the boys.”

Donovan shook his head and pulled the common entrance door to the apartment building as the buzzer sounded to release the remote door lock. He went through and walked the eight flights of steps to Miss Lavoie’s front door. The door was open and loud music boomed out from the whole apartment. He entered the house and immediately wished he had not. There was evidence of an indulgent high life everywhere, even in the passage. It started with discarded clothes and a razor blade that lay on the mirror on the hall dresser. As he went further into the house, looking for his client, he found more unsettling objects. Male clothes as well now, several pairs of pants, a half-smoked joint, a red-stained cork, used condoms and an empty bottle of wine. He just followed the trail of debris up the stairs to find the source; he found the music and a lot of noise coming from a sitting room on the first floor.

The room door was open and he walked in without knocking. He blinked and swore softly. There was an orgy going on. Or a gang bang. Five men with bodies that looked like they were carved from marble were naked. They surrounded a very pretty blonde girl. The girl was barely twenty years old and she was moaning in ecstasy as the five men plowed her body everywhere they could, mauled her breasts, and kissed her. They were gentle, but it was so wrong. The girl was so young, barely more than a child, and she was not just letting these men use her, she was begging for it.

Donovan stepped further into the room and tried to look past the scene. There were more empty bottles, traces of white on the surfaces of furniture, several spliffs in more than one ashtray. There were strips of pills scattered across a table. One of the men stepped away and the girl looked up, begging him to stay with a moan. She caught his eye then and smiled at him. “You, lawyer man, come and take his place.” Donovan knew instantly she was drunk and high as a kite. He wanted to say something, but he was distracted by an angry voice to his right.

“Keep your fucking hands off me,” the familiar voice said, angrily but quietly. Then there was the sound of a slap and seconds later the man groaned and buckled over. Donovan could see the woman now and smiled. “Ms. Walsh!” he greeted the woman with the olive glow enthusiastically. “Pleased to see you again! Though perhaps not the ideal setting.”

“No, indeed. A pleasure, Mister Donovan.”

Donovan nodded to the man gasping for breath. He had now dropped to the deck and lay in the fetal position, clutching his groin. Donovan looked at the man's eyes and knew he was in the same sort of state as his client. “He'd remember you for a long time if he was actually capable of forming memories at the moment.”

Naomh Walsh smiled. “Indeed. What brings you here, Mister Donovan?”

“Just call me Storm, or Donovan. Everyone calls me Donovan.”

“Okay, Donovan. What brings you here? I somehow doubt you're here to partake in the pleasure of my client as well.”

“Your client, Ms. Walsh?”

Ms. Walsh nodded to the blonde girl still being screwed by the four men and seemingly thoroughly enjoying herself. “I do her PR. Clean her mess up amongst other things. And it's Naomh.”

“Then we're in the same line of work, Naomh. I'm her attorney. Though looking at this mess, I might not be her attorney for much longer.”

Naomh sighed. “Tried to break this thing up since I got here, but it's no use.” She inclined her head to the door. “She's got a good espresso machine in the kitchen. Might as well enjoy a cup of coffee while we wait for her to be done with this.”

They went down to the kitchen where Naomh set about making them each a latté.

“You've done this before,” Donovan remarked from his vantage point at the end of the big breakfast bar in the kitchen. He had sat himself down on a stool and just watched Naomh make the espressos and foam up the milk.

“Got to do something when mademoiselle is entertaining.”

“That's what it's called now, is it?”

“Afraid so. She entertains more men, and women, than a cheap whore on an aircraft carrier.”

Donovan grinned. “Eloquently spoken.”

“Thanks,” Naomh said as she placed two mugs on the marble of the breakfast bar. She grabbed a pot of sugar from a shelf and sat down. She scooped a single spoon of sugar into her cup and stirred it gently. “So how long have you been her attorney?”

“Actually, I'm the attorney of her agent. My firm has represented her agency since she started. And since last year, we represent her record label as well. So we were the obvious choice to deal with this.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I founded the firm, so I guess I'm working for myself.” Donovan took a sip of the coffee. “You really have done this before!”

Naomh smiled and then winced as she heard a scream from upstairs. “Fuck, yeah!” the voice of Justine Lavoie squealed. Naomh muttered, “And to think she was this innocent young kid from Québec five years ago.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Donovan thought on it for a moment. “Strange how so many of them end up like this. Not that I often get to see it this up close and personal... but I do have my eyes and ears open.”

“It's insane. It's the industry – and the pressures of all these bastards around them – that does it. Including people like me telling them how to look and how to behave for the sake of their image.”

“Since when have you been her PR agent?”

“Since last year. Her previous PR reps walked out. She's been like this since I’ve known her. Apparently this shit started when she turned eighteen. She was one of the first big clients we pulled in.”

“Out of curiosity, is it your company?”

Naomh smiled brightly. “Yup. Started it with a friend when we were just out of college. Took a while, but we managed to build up quite a business.”

“And you kept your maiden name?” Donovan guessed, taking another sip of coffee to hide any possible betraying signs of ulterior motives.

“Yes. Well, we already had the business registered. Would only be confusing.”

“What's your husband do?”

“He's a producer. He just joined a film crew in South America; they're doing some stupid film about El Dorado and aliens! So I'm here keeping myself busy by going out with friends and by working. Otherwise, I'd just be traipsing around a big empty house all by myself.”

Donovan nodded. “I do hate an empty house. I tend to block that out with a good cigar, a drink and by playing some music.”

“That sounds like a great plan too.” Her smile was dazzling. “Perhaps I can join you for an evening of that sometime?”

Donovan was slightly taken aback by the proposal. “Sure.” He silenced the conversation by focusing on finishing his latté; buying himself more time to think. He paused, “How about tonight?”

“Sounds great. I have nothing else to do.”

Donovan looked at his Audemars watch and got up. “Well, Ms. Walsh, I think I will have to get going. I have another appointment as well and that one I do not wish to be late for. I certainly can't wait until mademoiselle is done entertaining.”

“Can't blame you for that.”

“Tell her she can drop by my office up until six this evening, if she wants our help to sort out this little spat with the law.” He pulled his jacket straight and made a light bow. “And thank you for the coffee. I'll see you tonight?”

“No worries. And I'll be there... as long as you tell me where.”

Donovan grinned. He could be an idiot sometimes, but that, it seemed, was part of the charm that made him so attractive. Never be too smooth. He took a pen and a business card out of his pocket and wrote down his address. “See you tonight.”

Chapter Four

Gregoris Sedakis himself greeted Donovan when he got back to his office in Midtown East. “I'm desperate for your services!” Sedakis still spoke with a thick Greek accent, even after thirty years in the US. Donovan reckoned it was something of a badge to the man. A mark of pride in his heritage and in the way he had come up in society in the US. He had left Greece when he was just twenty and had found a job at American Maritime Trucking as a dock worker. Through slow and careful investment and planning, he eventually rose from a dock worker and a welder to an owner of ships and harbors. He was the embodiment of the American Dream: rags to riches. Donovan liked him for that very reason. There had always been two ways to be someone in America. You had to be born to it, or you had to make yourself into someone.

Donovan had been born to it. Even if all the money he now had came from his own hard work, he had been born into money and privilege. He could only admire the man he now shook hands with and who pulled him into a big bear hug. He felt the man kiss him on the cheek. Another Greek thing, he knew. Himself, he slapped Sedakis on the back as heartily as he could.

“How are you, Gregoris?” He smiled brightly. “Hoping it's nothing serious you require my help with?”

“Not at all, not at all. There's just someone who claims some of the land the Red Hook container port stands on is his. Didn't challenge it previously, but since I have taken over, it's become a nuisance.”

“Who would be idiotic enough to make a fuss over land you own?” Donovan laughed. He was saying it with a bravado that he knew suited the man he was talking to.

“I know! This Denny Lang is just a louse!”

“Denny Lang?” Donovan froze. He was stunned. “You did not hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Denny Lang was found dead this morning.”

They went into his office and sat down. Sedakis gave him a curious look. “What the fuck happened?”

Donovan repressed a shudder as he recalled the impressions of this morning. “He was found in a warehouse on the docks north of the container port. Seems someone tortured him to death.”

Sedakis' face suddenly went blank. “What warehouse?”

Donovan had to think. “Pier 9B? Right off the northern ramp.”

He saw Sedakis swear. “That's on the land he's filed a lawsuit over?”

Sedakis nodded. “Since it's the harbor, I take it the FBI are taking this case?”

“Yeah.”

“You have a buddy there, right? Can you make sure he doesn't come after me over this? I was not involved.”

“I believe you. After all, why would you ask my legal advice on that if the problem was already taken care of?”

“Exactly.”

“Can't get Albert, my old partner, to stop investigating you though. But I'll tell him I reckon you're innocent in this.”

“Thanks.” Sedakis sat silent for a few moments, looking at his fingernails. “Well, I suppose the problem is indeed taken care of though. If he's dead, that lawsuit is goneburger.”

Donovan made a mental note of the slang term that had somehow made it into Sedakis' vocabulary and nodded. “His brother is out of jail, and they had a sister as well, at least last I knew of it. They will probably inherit and they might pursue the same course.”

Sedakis just nodded.

“Might be prudent to let me look over the paperwork.”

Sedakis took papers from his briefcase and handed them to Donovan. Donovan began to quickly look them over. There was a summary of the case on the first page and he read that in full before beginning to peruse the rest of the papers. It looked pretty plausible.

“So the claim is that the Port Authorities of New York and New Jersey gave American Maritime permission to build on land that was owned by his grandfather. The Port made the problem go away by paying him rent, but then upon his death, that stopped. Their father, who inherited, was a drunk and did not bother to take it anywhere and now they are pressing the issue, right after you bought the port?”

“Seems to be the gist of it.”

“I'll have one of the guys here take a look at the land registry archives. Check on whether their claim is valid. Can't trust their copy of the papers, of course. And I'll contact their attorney. I need to see the grandfather’s Last Will and Testament and see if their father prepared any documents. Once we have that in, we'll see about where we can take this. There are a few options legally. One would be to force the claim onto American Stevedore, who sold you the port, including land that wasn't theirs to sell.”

Sedakis got up. “I'll leave this in your capable hands then. Your old partner was investigating the death of this Denny Lang?” Donovan nodded.

“Well, I will probably hear from him real soon then.”

“I'll send you word about this lawsuit as soon as I know more,” Donovan assured him again. He offered his hand. “Always a pleasure, Gregoris. Even if the circumstances could have been better.”

Sedakis had looked worried and distracted the past few minutes, but now he broke out into his genial smile again. “And you, Storm. You know, the wife would like to have you over for dinner sometime soon. She's American so I had my mother teach her how to cook, and plus she'd enjoy your company. Come, come tomorrow!”

Donovan laughed. “I'd be delighted.” He wondered which wife this was. He remembered his divorce specialist had worked for the big Greek not long ago, so if there was a wife, she must be a new one.

Just as Donovan was about to finish the last sips of his coffee and gather his things to head down to the Jag, there was a buzz from his office phone. He looked out and saw his secretary fawning over someone who looked like a tramp in a fur coat. As the tramp and her entourage came closer, he recognized the unkempt blond hair. It was Justine Lavoie. He stood, walked to the door and greeted her as graciously as he could muster. It was only this morning that he bore witness to their pornographic display. He looked over the faces of the people following her, but there was no Naomh Walsh. “Miss Lavoie.”

“Donovan,” she said, barely giving him a look as she sat down in the chair behind his desk. His own chair. She swung her legs onto the desk. She was wearing shoes that would befit a porn star and a skirt that matched it perfectly. No underwear, Donovan noticed. He was quietly disgusted by the way the young woman conducted herself.

“This drunk driving thing. Make it go away.” she said as she pulled a spliff from her pocket and lit it. Her agent came into the office as well, but he dared not protest her behavior, knowing how tetchy she could be.

Donovan forced a smile. “C'est pas ça facile. C'est pas le premiér fois vous avez eu des problems avec le loi.”

“En Français, Monsieur Donovan? Trés bien!” the girl exclaimed in a delighted voice. There was a delight in her face as well. The agent stepped in before Donovan could reply. “In English, please. I've got to deal with this too.”

“Putain,” the girl snapped at him. “Fucking spoil sport. I hate you. Go away.”

Donovan suppressed a sigh. “Well, Miss Lavoie has had problems with the law before. This drunk driving thing might not go away as easily as we might wish. And it might be wise to clean up your act for a while. At least until the police have been round to talk to you. If they encounter a scene like the one I found this morning, they might not be as forgiving as we want.”

“Ugh, fucking police. They never let anyone have any fun.”

“That's the way it is, Miss Lavoie, and I'm afraid it won't change anytime soon, either.”

“So what do we do?” sighed the agent. The man was clearly at the end of his tether. Donovan knew he really worked for the Disney Corporation and would probably be under pressure from them as well. Though he could not be sure whether the pressure was to make Justine Lavoie appear as insane as possible or to save what was left of her image. He could never predict that when it came to the entertainment industry; everything was about publicity, sales and ratings. Personally, he suspected that the agent was as responsible for her deranged behavior as she was herself. After all, child stars who completely lose their way generally got too much attention in the media.

“Well, I have looked over the charges and I will go with you to the courthouse tomorrow. You are to present yourself there at noon and we'll hear the charges set against you. From what I can see, now it's a DUI and disturbance of the peace, which should mean nothing but a fine.”

“Good.” the agent said.

“I won't pay anything,” Justine Lavoie said firmly.

Donovan sighed. He could not help it this time. “Then you will be arrested and it will escalate from there.”

“I am Justine Lavoie, not some stinking piece of shit. I won't pay.”

Donovan blinked. “Well, we'll see each other tomorrow, noon, and we'll see what happens then. Right now, I have to leave you. I have another engagement.” His only engagement was with Naomh Walsh, who would drop by his loft sometime in the evening, but he could not take much more of this. He knew he had already slipped up, even if it was a slight slip.

He let Rachel, his secretary, escort them both out of the office and then he gathered his things and stood by the window. It had been a strange day, he reflected, as he stared down into the street. It would be another stressful day tomorrow. Though hopefully, without another horrifically mutilated corpse.

Donovan finally moved away from the window when he saw the limousine pull out of the parking garage. It meant his client by default had gone and he could safely run down to the Jag without encountering her again. That would be too much to stomach, to make polite sociable conversation with that little madam.

Ten minutes later, the green Jag raced out of the garage toward the Manhattan Bridge to take him safely back to Brooklyn. He drove into his building’s parking lot and swiftly parked his car in the parking bay labeled Apartment 3. He ran upstairs to his gym and threw on some shorts and a top and began his daily training regime. He wanted to complete it as quickly as he could; he didn’t know what time his guest would arrive.

He had tried to make out to Albert that it was no effort at all to remain slim and trim, but in fact, nothing was further from the truth. He was lucky in not having to worry too much about what and how much he ate, but he did work out and he did pay attention to what he ate. He took care to eat healthy and his exercise regime was designed specifically to let him keep a slim figure and made him look fit, without turning him into one of those guys that looked like they were on steroids.

And that was the way he did everything, that was how everything went with him. He was the master of moderation. He was suave and sophisticated, but he had long realized that to be too smooth would have an adverse effect on his business and social interactions alike.

An hour later he was done and he hurried to his third floor bathroom. Before he stripped, he sent a message to the cook, asking her to prepare food; he was expecting a guest in an hour. He jumped into the shower, then had a thought, stepped out and texted again. He asked his cook to make enough for two, just in case his guest would arrive before dinner, instead of later in the evening.

When he dried himself, it seemed his instinct had been correct. There was a buzz on his phone. It was from the intercom. He pulled up the video feed and found himself looking at the beautiful olive face and curly dark hair of Naomh Walsh.

“Good evening, Ms. Walsh.”

“Good evening, Mister Donovan.” her cheerful voice greeted him.

“I'll let you in.” Donovan generated an entry code to open the parking lot door for her. She would be there soon and his mind was racing to find out what he could put on in less than 30 seconds. In a corner of his mind, the idea arose that he should perhaps greet her wearing nothing but a towel and then continue getting ready as calmly as possible, but it did not seem the best idea in the end. He quickly ran into his dressing room and threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt. He did not look for shoes, only a belt. He would not bother to style his hair; instead he kept drying his hair with the towel. He ran down on bare feet and reached the bottom of the stairs just as the doorbell rang.

Still drying his hair Donovan opened the door and gave Naomh Walsh a cheerful greeting. “You're just in time, Naomh. My cook should have a meal finished in minutes.”

“Excellent! What's on the menu?” Naomh's heels clicked on the stones of the hallway.

“I have no idea,” Donovan smiled as he guided her to his dining room. “I tend to let her do what she wants. I have no allergies, no foods or spices I particularly dislike, and she is an excellent chef.”

“Excellent. If she's really good, I might have to poach her for some of my upcoming events.”

Donovan grinned. “Well, you could. I have no problems cooking my own meals on occasion. Just not every day. I'm far too busy most days and well...” He gestured around. “I have the money to hire a chef.”

“Funds for the finer things in life,” Naomh remarked.

“Again, well put. You do have a way with words.” Donovan showed her into the small dining room that was next to the kitchen. It was the informal dining room he used when alone. Through the door that connected it to the rest of the house, there was a lavish dining room, used for grand functions.

Naomh took up a seat with her back to a dresser that covered nearly the entire wall. It was a huge cupboard, far too large for the silverware and porcelain Donovan kept there.

Donovan took the other seat, his back to the door that led to a small corridor and four steps that lead to the kitchen. It was his usual seat. He was not worried about who might or might not enter the room through that door. He realized that Naomh Walsh was unconsciously nervous about who might come through that door. But of course, she did not know the cupboard behind her was not just a place to store cups and cutlery.

It did not take long for the butler to come through the door with two trays, each containing a large dish covered by a silver cloche. He set down the plates in front of each of them and removed the cloches. The chef had outdone herself. Perhaps she had realized Donovan was entertaining someone more interesting than his old college buddies or some associate in his law firm.