The priest projects his sermon with all the self-assured elan of a lounge singer delivering his climactic crowd-pleaser: ‘This one’s for you! Why not sing along with the ‘Amens’?’
Admittedly, the bereaved could perhaps put in a little more effort. We might look the part, but there’s not a mourner in attendance who imagines he’s leaving behind a grieving family.
At least his PA is shedding genuine tears, though I suspect they’re on account of her dearly departed pay check.
‘GABRIEL CALLAGHAN III’ reads his gaudy plaque. I hate that numeral: it makes me feel like the next model on a production line. My grandfather wore it like a badge of honour; said it gave him a sense of peerage: ‘Honouring the Gabriel Callaghans that have come before us.’ Says it all that he wouldn’t share the name with his son.
“What’s with the priest?”
The clergyman stumbles just a little over his ministrations, but like a true professional, is back in full flow amidst his audience’s disdainful grumbling.
Josephine manages to glare at me out the corner of her eye, but there’s no venom in it. “You know your grandfather,” she says beneath her breath. “He loved the pomp and ceremony.”
For her benefit I lower my voice. “Well he’d better hurry up. He’s making me hungry.”
“Behave yourself, Gabriel.”
Spurred it seems, the priest rushes to a close - “…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” - and our token mourners chorus the ‘Amen’.
Josephine steps forward with the urn; heeled boots gliding over the thickening snow. She stops at the edge of the grounds overlooking the Atlantic, whispers a few choice words, and casts her brother to the breeze.
For a moment, we all pay our silent respects, until a small voice derails my train of thought. “Weren’t you going to put that on the plaque?”
Zara is at my hip, staring reverently at the ground. “Something like that,” I reply.
“So, what happened?”
“Your mother said it wasn’t appropriate. ‘Disrespectful’, she said.”
“Bite me.” A nearby lawyer who’d had the audacity to ‘shush’ us, pales at Zara’s snarl, and seeks solace in the depths of the monochrome crowd. “So,” she says, back to calm and reverential, “you’re saving it for the wake?”
“You think a change of scenery would make it any more appropriate?”
“The alcohol might.”
“Hmm.” She has a point…
By now, the lawyer has shuffled to the back of the crowd and is cutting a quick, but cautious path to the carpark. The rest are becoming restless: too cold to stand still; too polite to leave before offering their condolences.
Josephine is too lost in thought to care. They were never close - for decades, they barely exchanged a word - but he was still her brother. For a time, our outward indifference gives way to genuine solemnity.
Then Josephine’s mood shifts. She turns her face to the moon and I catch a distinctive glint in her eye.
She smells blood.
#
It’s the most wonderful time of the year…
And the whole of Manhattan was resplendent in its festive regalia: every building sprouting more trees than Central Park, and draped in enough tinsel to blanket Lapland. Cherry-cheeked children dragged weary parents from toy-store to toy-store, ooh-ing and ah-ing at the window dressing, while hunting the shiniest grotto with the shortest line. Cabbie rhetoric was tempered with the jollity of the holiday, trying to smile seasonal tips from their yuppie passengers, while pimps and prostitutes offered their own smiles and winks in hope of the same. Street vendors roasted chestnuts, bums opened their festive bottles of turpentine, The Boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay, And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.
Officer Sean Powell of New York’s finest, however, was not singing. He was instead dreaming of a bottle of mid-range Remy Martin presently going undrunk on his kitchen diner, and lamenting the call that had steered him from his journey home.
“Sorry Sean,” the dispatcher had said. “Security at the Guggenheim just called in a two-forty. Armstrong and Nichols are en route, but there's been an accident on 78th, and I figured you'd still be in the area.”
“You know I’m on vacation, right? Can’t the guards handle it?”
“You’d think, but they sounded a little panicked.”
“It's the Guggenheim, Steph. Some crusty old critic's probably taken offence at some other crusty old critic's crusty old opinion of a crusty old Renoir.”
“Maybe, but there’s a big shindig tonight: new exhibit opening. Press; dignitaries; a lot of champagne. I just need you to show up, flash the uniform and make sure nothing gets spilt on anyone expensive. C'mon, Sean. I'll get Armstrong and Nichols to foot it through the traffic. Ten minutes, tops.”
“Yeah, right. You ever seen Armstrong run?”
The ‘big shindig’ was represented by a short red carpet, velvet guide ropes and a board-looking paparazzo, sat shivering in a wool-lined anorak by the entrance, cycling despondently through the evening’s snaps.
The pap’ brightened at the site of the officer, but was warned off from raising his camera by Powell’s expression.
“Evening officer! Larry Haynes: The Times.” Larry holds out a hand that Powell doesn’t shake. “Um, something going on?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I wish. This was supposed to be some big gala event! We got a painter, the mayor’s wife and a bunch of her dinner-party entourage. And this piece of shit-” he held up his camera, “-decides to freak out on me!”
Powell ignored the camera and looked over Larry’s shoulder into the empty foyer. “No security on the door?”
“Oh yeah. He got called in a little while ago. Sounded like someone took a swing at someone.”
“And you stayed out here?”
“No press allowed inside. The great artiste doesn’t want his work compromised. Besides, I like seeing a high-society punch-up as much as the next guy, but if no-one knows ‘em, no-one pays me.”
“You’re a credit to your profession.”
Powell left Larry shivering in the cold and complaining to himself, and entered the foyer: brightly-lit, and decorated only with a small tree on the security desk. No-one behind the desk. No noise except for the air-conditioning and fluorescent hum. Powell unclipped his holster and pushed the call button on his radio.
“Steph-”
The call was interrupted by a thunderclap from above. A body smashed through the stone rotunda and hit the foyer's marble floor with a resounding thud and wet snap of rending bone and flesh. The man’s body was bloodied and scarred, but breathing, albeit slowly. His suit was torn; his hair wild; his skin translucent.
The eyes snapped open: unnaturally large lenses, with dilated pupils and a thin ring of brown iris, that snapped to pinholes in the light. He rolled aside and a second man buried a knee and fist in the broken marble.
The two squared to each other, then lunged.
They fought like animals: gnashing, snarling and clawing at each other. Tearing cloth and flesh. Every blow landing with sickening retort.
At length one of the 'men' gained the upper hand: a claw raking the eye of his opponent. An anguished, guttural scream. The victim swung a desperate haymaker, but he was caught: his neck broken; his throat slit with an extended finger nail. The victor clamped his jaws over the gaping wound.
For a moment, silence… Then the victor raised his grotesque eyes to the stunned officer.
#
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata drifts through the west wing of my grandfather’s mansion. I’d rather hear some swing, but Zara is insistent on the atmosphere. She sways as she plays, like a hippy in a daze, while I’m draped over the ancient Steinway like a 1920’s lounge singer: a smouldering cigarette between my lips and heritage-defying English single malt at my side.
Old Gabe would be pissed.
There were few things we agreed upon, but, for all his faults, he did at least have a fondness for music, as evidenced by the antique grand. The room also boasts a harp and harpsichord from the court of Charles II, a cello from the debut performance of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, guitars ‘personally gifted from McCartney and Hendrix’ (though one of which is strung for a right-hander…), and a vinyl collection the Library of Congress would trade its Gutenberg Bible for.
He’d often spend the pre-dawn morning in the crimson leather wingback by the window, enjoying a Cuban and a Cooley, while some soft jazz played on the gramophone.
“Does that thing even work?” Zara asks, nodding to the hipsters’ record player.
“For about five minutes at a time, before he had to wind it again.”
She shrugs. “They do sound better.”
“So does a jukebox.”
For a while, we enjoy the atmosphere. Zara moves on to Liszt. I quench the butt of my cigarette, finish off my glass and reload.
“You think my mom will be long?”
“That depends entirely on her prey.”
“Yeah… I hope he’s good. She could do with the distraction.”
I sit up with what I hope is a convincingly sympathetic smile. Zara has stopped swaying and is playing on autopilot; staring through the piano’s lid. “I didn’t get much from her at the funeral. How’s she doing?”
Zara shrugs. “She had to kill her own brother. I guess she’s doing as well as can be expected.”
#
It was a fucking nightmare. Eighteen dead, two missing and a patrolman who looked like he’d be needing a long course of therapy.
Lieutenant Jerry Malone stood in the midst of the carnage in a hastily adorned and unpressed gray suit, wondering if his promotion was really worth the extra five hundred a year, while an army of white overalls scoured every inch of the exhibition hall. He was focused on a graphic depiction of the crucifixion of St. Peter, hanging skewed from a single wire. The painting was torn and blood-spattered; the wall behind bearing what appeared to be the impact of a sledgehammer. In the context of the exhibit, it was difficult to discern whether or not its current state was intentional. The Influence of Religious Extremism on Post-Renaissance Expressionism. Jerry doubted the destruction had done anything but improve exhibit’s charm.
“Appropriate,” he mumbled.
“Sir?” The second sergeant on scene had been rushing through his notes, too eager to finish up and get away to notice his lieutenant’s apparent lack of interest.
“Nothing,” said Jerry, who hadn’t missed a word. “You were saying?”
“Um, yeah,” continued Sergeant Nichols. “When we - that is, me and- um, Sergeant Armstrong and I - arrived, Powell and the journalist were sat by the entrance. We couldn't get a word out of them. I radioed for a paramedic and stayed with them while Armstrong came in to investigate. He found...well, this.”
“Hm.” Jerry pulled his attention from the inverted martyr, and his was immediately caught by a woman in an elegant black dress - a stark contrast against the white overalls - crouched, and sniffing at a fallen plinth. “You got an address on Carver?”
“Sir?” asked Sergeant Nichols, distracted himself by a desire to be as far away as possible from everyone in the hall, regardless of how they were dressed.
“The artist,” said Jerry. “He’s not among the dead.”
“Oh, right. Sergeant Oldham says he lives out in the Hamptons, but he’s got a studio over on 63rd and Lexington.”
The woman in black appeared to follow a scent from the plinth to the asymetrically hung painting.
“Okay, tell Steph to call on local PD to knock on his mansion. I’ll swing by his studio.”
Nichols nodded. “What about Powell?”
Jerry turned from the bizarre woman to appraise his sergeant. Nichols was making a sterling attempt at standing straight and true, but he gripped his notebook with a trembling hand.
“I’ll speak to Powell and Mr. Haynes in the morning. You and Armstrong are off duty: take them for a stiff drink.”
There was palpable relief in Nichols’ “Yes sir,” and he left the hall at a pace.
The woman in black had stopped sniffing, and was now crouched perfectly still; eyes closed, and hand on the floor.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Jerry.
She held up a finger, and the detective closed his mouth. Confused at his own reaction, he said with some authority, “Excuse me?”
No reaction.
“Hey, lady!”
Josephine opened her eyes and rose with a placid smile. For a moment, Lieutenant Jeremiah Malone forgot himself. She was beautiful: tall and lean, but not without curves. Her jet-black hair was smooth and shimmering, and reached almost to her waist; unstyled, yet maintaining a perfect frame for her flawless features, how ever she moved. Porcelain skin entirely without blemish.
She looked, to Jerry’s struggling eye, somehow fake; like an ageing starlet seen through a soft-focus lense.
“Yes, detective?” she said with a voice rich and serene.
Jerry had to grit his teeth and concentrate. “Are you supposed to be here?”
“No, not really.”
“Oh. Then would you kindly get the fuck away from my crime-scene?”
“Of course,” she said with an apologetic bow. “My apologies, Lieutenant Malone.”
And she was gone.
Around him, the white overalls continued their forensic analysis, unaware the woman had even been there.
#
Deep imprints in the foyer’s marbled floor had been tagged; lines traced to blood spatter and trails of ash. A forensics officer gathered a sample of the ash as another photographed the blood and peculiar impact damage to the walls and floor.
Uniformed officers were guarding the entrance from press and rubber-necking passers by.
Josephine stood unnoticed, eyes closed and breathing deeply. She focused, and the activity around her slowed to a silent, shrouded crawl. She traced figures in her mind; the spectral shadows of two men. They moved around her in a slow dance, ending when one rose exultant over his fallen opponent.
A deeper breath, and she followed the dance back to a point when the men faced each other. Furrowing her brow, the shadows sharpened to reveal vague features. The victor was the shorter of the two; but broader. His mouth was a gaping maw, curled slightly into an open grin.
The other was taller and slimmer even than Josephine. His expression was blank; posture tense. He knew he was going to lose.
The echo of a camera shutter cut through a racing heartbeat. Sergeant Powell was stood frozen by the door, and behind him stood Larry; his camera raised.
Josephine opened her eyes, and the mist and shadows washed away.
“Watch it! You’re standing on my evidence!”
“You are doing a good job,” Josephine said to the forensics officer. “Carry on.”
The forensics officer carried on, warm in the knowledge she was doing a good job.
#
In the security room behind the foyer, Sergeant Armstrong was helping himself to a pot of coffee. Powell and Larry sat side-by-side on a faux-leather couch; one staring at the overhead light, while the other continued to scrutinize his camera.
Sergeant Nichols entered with an exuberant “Gentlemen!” that failed to cut through the douer atmosphere. “We’ve been ordered to drink.”
Powell and Larry were unmoved. Armstrong poured his coffee back into the pot. They all failed to notice Josephine stood over Larry, until she spoke.
“Mr. Haynes, may I see that?”
What shock the men felt was gone in an instant; lost in a languorous haze. Larry handed over his camera.
She clicked through the shots of the arriving dignitaries: each marred by a blurred patch, as if an isolated area of the background was out of focus. The final picture showed the museum’s foyer. Powell stood in sharp focus in the center of the image. To his right, the same blurred patch as in the other photographs. To his left, a somewhat less distinct haze; a mere wisp of fog.
Josephine smiled and returned the now empty camera. “You are too good for your ignoble profession,” she told the paparazzo. “Enjoy your drink, gentlemen.”
A moment later, Nichols was the first to find his voice: “You all saw her too, right?”
Sean Powell grabbed a trash can and threw up.
