CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 3

Detective Flack returned from FBI headquarters with disappointingly little to report. For what it was worth, both agencies now knew about Lexi Duhaine's academic success, excellent career prospects, professional dedication, and nonexistent social life – and about the FBI's complete lack of leads. "And that's all she wrote," Flack concluded, showing symbolically empty hands. "You'd think that with all their resources, the feds could've come up with something."

There was the perfect opening for Taylor. "Dr. Hawkes has come up with something. Problem is, he doesn't know what it is." With that, he dispatched Flack and Bonasera to the morgue.

They returned stunned and pale, reminding him of his own reaction. "So what do you think?"

Bonasera shook her head. "I think we should let the feds have a look."

Taylor nodded once, then turned to Flack. The detective considered before saying, "Well, we don't know if there's any connection between their case and ours."

"Except for one huge connection," Bonasera reminded him. "And it takes up a big block on the East Side by the park."

"Stella's got a point." Taylor looked from one to the other. "Especially considering that all the security cameras in a direct route between the west basement entrance and the weapons gallery were turned off at 8:30 Monday night."

"By someone who obviously knew that the cameras aren't checked or maintained regularly." Bonasera was emphatic. "It could have been any staff member at work that night, but a certain sudden and complete disappearance doesn't look good."

And Flack conceded. "Okay. We'll share it with the feds."

Taylor was satisfied. "I'll inform Dr. Hawkes and arrange the viewing. Don, tell me who you met with at the FBI."

XXXX

"Detective Taylor? I'm Special Agent Jack Malone, and this is Agent Vivian Johnson." Hands met all around. "We're very interested in this mysterious body you have."

"Right this way. Dr. Hawkes is waiting for us." The two FBI agents, sadly familiar with the New York City morgue, didn't look around but followed straight to the autopsy room, to be introduced to the medical examiner and take places beside the exam table. Hawkes ran his gaze across three faces, then drew back the drape.

Once past the initial astonishment, Malone had a double handful of questions, few of which had any answers. Detective Taylor was forthright about the dearth of other evidence, and Hawkes made it clear that their guess was as good as his.

An opportune ringtone broke the uncomfortable impasse. "Jack Malone. Yeah, Martin, what'd he say?... Really? Did he identify himself?... Interesting. I want you to go there, with Danny. And wait a second; I've got someone here who'll want to hear this." He turned to an expectant Detective Taylor. "One of my team has gotten a call from someone who didn't leave his name, is claiming to be Lexi Duhaine's boyfriend, says he doesn't know what's all this about her going missing, and he's supposed to be meeting her today for a lunch date. And apparently, we're invited. He wants to show us nothing's going on."

"And wouldn't give his name. Do you like the feel of this?"

"No."

"Neither do I. Can Detective Flack come too?"

Malone returned to his call. "You heard that, Martin? The NYPD wants into the mix. Good; Detective Flack will come back with Viv and me, and you can fill him in. Thanks." He put the phone away. "Can this case get any weirder?"

Taylor smiled wryly. "I'd like to say no, but – give it time."

XXXX

The bar on St. Mark's Place was obviously trying to give the impression of a scruffy workingman's dive that had been there for decades, but was unmistakably a new arrival catering to the young and idle with more money than self-control. Don Flack gave a snort as he sized up the small crowd smoking and milling about the sidewalk at the entrance. "I hope no one thinks we're here off duty."

"Oh, that might not be so bad, Detective," Agent Danny Taylor replied airily. "Some of those young ladies at the door seem to be checking us out."

"Some of those young guys too," Flack grunted back. "Let's get this over with ASAP. So who's this we're supposed to meet? You said he wouldn't give his name."

"Not exactly," answered Martin Fitzgerald, who'd taken the call in question. "It was more like he forgot to mention it than that he wouldn't. Just said, 'Meet me at the bar, I'll be in a brown bomber jacket and chains,' and hung up."

Flack gave another snort. "Can you use the word 'ditz' for a man?" All three chuckled as they maneuvered through the sidewalk layabouts and went in.

Inside it was warm and dark, and in a different age would have been smoky. Martin looked around with a touch of disapproval. "Would you meet a lady for lunch here?"

"Liquid lunch, maybe," his teammate said. "I wonder who all these people are who can hang out drinking at noon on a weekday. See any chains?"

"Only the little thin kind, attached to nose piercings." Martin shook his head slightly. "I don't know, but this doesn't strike me as the kind of place Lexi Duhaine would hang out. Those aren't exactly Old Master drawings on the walls."

"Hey, just because you work with the classics doesn't mean you don't also appreciate crude softcore porn." Flack rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I really miss Mayor Giuliani. Let's get started." He led the way over to the bar. The bartender approached, but Flack waved him off. By silent, tacit agreement, no badges were shown yet.

It wasn't two minutes later when the reedy, slightly high British accent shrilled behind them. "You guys the feds? You look like the feds."

Martin winced at being given away so casually, and Danny spun around to meet the speaker's eyes, but Flack was the first to answer. "They're the feds. I'm the cops. Can we help you?"

"Great!" A wide grin revealed small, somewhat discolored teeth between a sharp chin and narrow nose. He had lank long hair of an indeterminate shade of dark, and was wearing the promised chain-trimmed, brown leather bomber jacket over a thin frame, with a little bit of belly just beginning to show itself. The overall effect was foxy but not unpleasant, and somehow familiar.

Danny was closest to him, and did the introductions. "I'm Special Agent Taylor, this is Special Agent Fitzgerald, and that's Detective Flack."

They waited, but he didn't respond in kind. The grin just went wider, and he said expectantly, "Well? You do, don't you?"

"Do what?" Danny was less suspicious than bewildered.

The reedy voice went reedier with petulance. "Recognize me! Come on! Don't you remember?" He hummed a brief snatch of melody, then switched to another one.

Flack caught on first; even so, he didn't seem too impressed. "So you're the guy from Black Tide?"

The guy from Black Tide came close to bouncing up and down. "All right! Beautiful! Yes, it's me, Derek Shaftoe, in the flesh. You remember how we burned up the charts in '91 and '92 with Name Your Poison and The White Black Tide Album – "

"That's cool." Flack cut him off. "Now can you really help us find Lexi Duhaine, or did you bring us here so we'd ask for autographs?"

"Oh. Yeah, right. Lexi." Shaftoe landed abruptly. "Right," he repeated. "She's supposed to meet me here at about – " he checked a large gold wristwatch – "at about right now!" He jerked his head up, glancing about like a startled cat. "See her anywhere?"

Martin rolled his eyes and exchanged a glance with Danny, who sighed; Flack seemed to be trying not to laugh. So this was going to be an utter waste of time after all. The three of them followed the former rock singer's gaze, looking for anyone among the tattooed, bleached, pierced women in the bar who could pass for Alexa Duhaine, not expecting results. The rumble of talk in the crowded place could give anyone a headache, even without the low but distinct and oddly unpleasant voices Martin could hear very close by. Someone whose throat was dust-dry couldn't seem to stop giggling scratchily right behind him, and someone else was wetly smacking his lips in response. He was tempted to turn and see just who they were, not to mention demand that they stop, whoever they were. The sounds were harsh, penetrating, scraping across his skull and giving him the headache of the century.

What the hell kind of weirdos hung out in the East Village these days? Martin turned, thoroughly annoyed, ignoring the involuntary shudder that crawled up his back, looking around for faces to attach to the creepy noises…it was hot in the bar, kind of enervating…no way Lexi Duhaine was here; they should haul this washed-up metalhead back to the office with them and show him what the FBI thought of attention-seekers interfering with a federal investigation…the air was sultry, close, almost unbreathable now, and why the hell did he feel so tired…who were those giggling and gurgling idiots and why wouldn't they just shut up…no, this was wrong, just all wrong, and it meant trouble…Instinctively, uselessly, Martin reached limply for his gun, but the world went dark long before he could reach it.

"This is stupid," Danny observed as he gave the crowd the thrice-over. "She's not here, and we shouldn't be either."

"I think you're right." Flack scowled, turning back to their odd informer. "So Mr. Shaftoe, you mind telling us – what the – where did he go?" He glanced all around, much faster this time.

Danny caught the note of confusion and felt it infecting him too. "I didn't see him leave. Did you, Martin – Martin! Where the hell's Martin?"

Others were turning to stare at the two men as they shot panicked looks in every direction. With no sign of either Martin or the informer, they hurriedly forced their way back to the entrance, only to see no sign of either on the street. Pushing back in, they returned to the bar, this time addressing the bartender. "This place have a back door?" Flack demanded.

"In the kitchen, staff only," the bewildered man replied.

"Good. No one's to use it for a while, or the front one either." Now the badges came out.

Danny made his voice heard above the steady din, which now rapidly faded. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention…the police and the FBI are conducting an investigation; if we can have your cooperation, this will go very quickly and you can all go about your business…"

XXXX

Once the team had arrived to Danny's hurried summons, the brief interviews went very quickly. At least a dozen people had registered Derek Shaftoe's presence, but not one could clearly testify to having seen him leave. Most of the same group and a few others had also noticed the far less flamboyant Agent Fitzgerald, but no one had watched him leave either. And predictably, no one in the place had seen Lexi Duhaine.

Jack Malone was not pleased as he asked for the fourth time, "Danny, you just turned around and Martin wasn't there anymore?"

Agent Danny Taylor spread his hands helplessly. "I didn't see him go, which he had no reason to in the first place, and he didn't say anything. Detective Flack and I had just agreed that there was no sign of Lexi Duhaine, and when we turned back to say so to Shaftoe, there was no sign of him either…and when I looked for Martin, he was gone too." A last shake of his head, then Danny dropped his gaze in surrender.

"There's got to be some reasonable explanation," Flack declared. "Just don't ask me to come up with it. We didn't see or hear any disturbance, no one running out, nothing like that. Just that when we turned to them, they weren't there." The detective looked over at Agent Sam Spade. "Ever have a missing person missing this fast?"

Sam's cheeks were two bright flushes in a very pale setting. "No."

Flack shrugged, trying to disguise his concern and failing. "Spontaneous combustion leaves a mark, so it couldn't have been that…" Sam glared hard at him, but only for a moment before she had to look away, blinking quickly.

Agent Johnson quickly intervened between them. "Let's remember we're on the same side here, and hopefully can keep on the same page. Maybe your CSIs can find something useful, Detective Flack."

"If anyone can, they will," he declared with a touch of pride.

"Good." Johnson reached out and took hold of her colleague's shoulder. "In the meantime, we know Martin can take care of himself – and he knows that we're looking for him." Then her tone hardened. "And as for this Derek Shaftoe, I'm sure he knows we're looking for him too. And he's not going to be at all happy when we find him."

Inside, the staff were none too pleased about their place of business being treated as a crime scene. The bartender was grumbling, "Look, two guys walked out. Who gives a damn? You see a body or anything?"

"No, but I see this." Detective Bonasera held up her tweezers; in its tip was clamped a slim dark arc about two inches long, curved like a parenthesis, too big to be a hair and too delicate to be a wire. "Two of them on the floor here, and another on the bar. Any idea what they are?"

"The Jolly Green Giant's eyelashes? Like I care! Will you just finish picking over my place so I can get some customers back in here?"

"We're almost finished, sir," Detective Taylor promised from the floor. "It looks as if this stuff has damaged your floor in spots." Mindful of the blackened marks under the stuff in question, he collected it in a glass tube rather than a plastic bag.

"That's my problem, not yours," the civilian snapped.

"And one of those two guys who walked out, as you put it, is a federal agent. That's our problem. Which doesn't exactly make this a crime scene, but we appreciate the chance to go over it."

"Yeah, I'm such a good citizen. Are you done yet?"

Bonasera finished stowing her samples. "Yes, we're done here." She turned her attention to her partner. "You make anything of this stuff?"

"Not yet, but that's what the crime lab is for, Stella."

XXXX

"DAMN it!" The roar shook the room. "We've got to do something NOW!"

"We can't, and you know we can't. The risk of discovery is too high."

"So there's a risk of discovery! There's always a risk of discovery! Like we haven't run a cover-up before?"

The voice was weary under the weight of secrets. "I realize that it's in your nature to want to go off half-cocked, but if any of this gets out to the public – "

"It'd be a hell of a lot worse if it gets out to the public in the form of blood in the streets, which it WILL unless we can stop this thing! And if we wait that long, we won't be able to stop it!"

A third voice, younger and higher. "Which would make this whole debate pretty academic." A sigh, then an appeal. "We all appreciate the position you're in, sir, but things are moving too fast to be cautious now. They have the book, they have the sword, and now it seems they have a federal agent. With all due respect, isn't this sort of thing the reason this division exists in the first place?"

"Unfortunately," the other sighed back. Then he shook his head heavily. "Necessitas non habet legem, as they say."

"As they say," the other echoed, with a shrug. "I'll contact Special Agent Malone first, and then inform the NYPD CSI unit. The usual protocol, sir?" A nod was sufficient answer.

"That's why they call it the usual protocol, kid," the first voice rumbled agreeably. "It's gonna feel good to finally get off our butts and do something about this."

TO BE CONTINUED