Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel Read online

  Oh, he thought. That would work.

  “You turned investigator now?” asked Dina Quattore. “Maybe I should buy you a freakin’ Sherlock Holmes hat.”

  She was in Gordon’s Volvo station wagon, heading toward the dog-breeding facility. Dina was a New York cop out of Fort Freak, a short, buxom woman with curly black hair. Gordon had talked her into joining him on her free afternoon, and she was out of uniform, dressed in jeans and a baggy nylon jacket that covered the pistol she wore on her hip.

  “I just got curious about this place,” Gordon said. “They claim they’re a dog-training facility, but I think there may be other things going on in there.”

  “What kind of other things?” Dina asked.

  “A joker was found dead near there.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dina said. “Doc, it’s the Sherlock Holmes hat for you.”

  Gordon was clearly stepping outside his sphere. Despite what might be seen on television, real-life forensic pathologists and profilers and crime scene investigators and other specialists did not actually confront suspects, participate in car chases, or get involved in shootouts. Gordon’s job was to perform autopsies. Sometimes he’d be called to the scene, sometimes he’d testify at a trial, sometimes he’d hear about an arrest, and often he never ever found out about the disposition of a case. His focus was normally confined to the morgue.

  But he couldn’t help but notice that there were some unaccounted-for anomalies here in Warren County. The dead John Doe was one, and the IDS facility was another. Maybe the two belonged together.

  He’d done research on IDS. They had no web page, no listed telephone number. They had a business license in New Jersey, with the address of the facility.

  It wasn’t even clear what IDS stood for.

  “Also,” Gordon said, “the man at the facility was a Russian or something.”

  Dina snickered. “I hope you give me my share of credit when you crack the spy ring.”

  “Just look at the place,” Gordon said. “Tell me it’s legit.”

  He slowed the Volvo to a crawl as they approached the compound. Dina looked out the window in silence as the buildings moved past. “Pull off the road once we’re out of sight,” she said, her voice suddenly serious.

  “What are you getting?”

  Dina shook her head. Her eyes were closed in concentration. Gordon drove on till the compound was hidden behind a stand of silver maple, then pulled onto the shoulder and parked. Dina led Gordon across a roadside ditch partly filled with water after the last rain. The humid, cool air was filled with the scent of spring flowers. Gordon and Dina walked slowly through the trees until they had a view of the IDS facility, and then Dina bent her head, her face set in an expression of fierce concentration.

  Dina, Gordon knew, was a telepath. She could read the thoughts of others at a distance.

  But not humans. Dina could only read dogs. That’s why she worked with the K-9 unit. NYPD Public Relations called her “K-10.” Everyone else called her Dina.

  Water dripped down Gordon’s collar as he waited. Then Dina straightened and shook her head. She tapped her nose. “You know what I’m smelling?” she asked. “Semtex.”

  “Plastic explosive.”

  Dina nodded toward the compound. “They’re training bomb-sniffer dogs right this minute,” she said. “Other dogs are being trained to find drugs.” She shook her head. “Man, that chronic must be twenty years old, it’s a miracle they’re not training the dogs to find mold.” She began walking back toward the car. “None of the dogs seem unhappy, and none are being mistreated. And if there are explosives and controlled substances used to train the dogs, that explains the high security.” She looked at Gordon and laughed. “Sorry to destroy your detective fantasy.”

  Gordon shrugged. “It’s better to know,” he said. He opened the passenger door for her. “Dinner’s on me,” he said.

  Dina started to get into the car, then hesitated. “No offense, Doc,” she said, “but does that mean you’re doing the cooking?”

  Gordon blinked at her. “Sure.”

  Dina gave Gordon an uncomfortable look. “You know,” she said, “my taste in food is pretty conventional, when all’s said and done.”

  “Game is organic,” Gordon said, “and it’s lean. Free-range. It’s better for you than anything you’ll find in a supermarket.”

  A stubborn expression entered Dina’s eyes. “Doc,” she said, “I’ve eaten your chili.”

  Gordon surrendered. “I’ll take you to a restaurant.”

  Dina’s smile was brilliant. “Thanks.”

  He took her to a place in Belvidere with a view of the Delaware. He didn’t know whether she was on a low-carb diet or whether her tastes in food were more like a dog’s than those of a human; but Gordon watched Dina devour a fourteen-ounce rib eye while taking only a few bites of her salad and baked potato.

  The conversation was pleasantly professional, ranging from weird crimes to weird autopsies. An older couple at a nearby table asked to be moved when Dina described a cadaver one of her dogs had found.

  Gordon found himself enjoying Dina’s company. She was a very attractive young woman, and he was far from immune to her allure.

  Most men, he supposed, would be wondering what Dina looked like naked. Gordon had no such questions, for the simple reason that he already knew the answer. He’d seen more naked women, of every size and age and description, than the most accomplished seducer. There were no mysteries left—not even cause of death, because he always found that out.

  That the vast majority of the women he met were dead put him at something of a social disadvantage with living females, but not as much as most people might think.

  Beauty did not leave with death. The human body was a marvel of intricate design, the highly crafted product of millions of years of evolution. Contained within its morphology were membranes as delicate as a spider’s web, a muscle as powerful and enduring as the heart, a structure as diffuse and ephemeral as the lymphoid system. The musculoskeletal system was a glory of complexity, the interaction between muscles and bone producing everything from a champion athlete to a shy girl’s smile.

  The human body was as varied and wonderful as the surface of a planet.

  The wild card added to the wonder: sometimes its improvisations were brilliant, sometimes merely chaotic. It subverted every single cell—or enhanced it. Or both.

  Gordon lived a fair percentage of his professional life in a constant state of awe.

  After dinner Gordon joined Dina on the train back to New York.

  “You know,” she said, “everyone at the precinct thinks you’re a joker.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You think I’m not?”

  “You’ve been around some of my dogs,” Dina said. “They can usually smell a wild card—the metabolism’s generally tweaked some way that causes the difference to come out the pores.”

  “I’ve noticed that myself,” Gordon said.

  “I think you’re just—” She laughed. “Skinny and very tall.”

  Gordon nodded. “Good observation, there, Officer.”

  “And another thing,” she said, tapping his arm. “You make a terrible Sherlock Holmes.”

  I guess, Gordon thought, I’ll have to settle for being Wernher von Braun.

  They left the train at Pennsylvania Station and ran into the usual Penn Station crowd: commuters, street people, and pimps waiting for the arrival of runaway teenagers from Minnesota. Gordon saw Dina to a cab. “Dinner again some time?” he said.

  She smiled up at him. “I feel like I need a booster seat sitting across the table from you,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I’ll have the waitress bring you one.”

  Dina nodded. “Okay. Give me a call.”

  Well, he thought as he watched her drive away, that went well.

  There was a lot of yelling from Interrogation Room Two. A woman kept wailing, “He was a good boy!” and a man’s voice was uttering threats agains
t the city, the department, and probably everybody else.

  Gordon looked around for Detective Kant and saw only Detective Van Tranh, the vibrating ace who failed utterly to rejoice in his nickname of “Dr. Dildo.”

  “Kant sent for me,” Gordon said.

  Tranh waved in the direction of the interrogation room. “Your Jersey John Doe got identified,” he said. “He’s one of the missing on Squid’s list. Franny and the Lou are trying to calm the family down.”

  “And I’m supposed to help with that?”

  “You’re supposed to explain the medical evidence,” Tranh said. “So far, the family isn’t convinced.”

  Gordon stepped toward the door, then hesitated. “I should go back and get my autopsy report.”

  “Fran’s got a copy.”

  “Okay.” Gordon walked to the door, knocked, and entered the small room where Kant and Franny were being shouted at by the grieving family.

  Gordon had met his share of bereaved couples over the years, but he had never encountered quite so much drama stuffed into two people. They were both broad and tall and took up a lot of space, and they made so much noise that they seemed to occupy the whole room. Mrs. Heffer cried, wailed, asked God to punish her, and kept insisting her son was a good boy. Mr. Heffer suspected conspiracy, refused to believe a thing he was told, and banged the table as he uttered threats. “My son did not have a heart attack!” he shouted as he kicked a chair. “He worked out all the time! He studied Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu!”

  “It wasn’t a heart attack,” Gordon attempted. “It was sudden cardiac death.”

  Mr. Heffer beat himself on the chest with a fleshy fist. “My son did not have a heart attack!” he screamed.

  “Aortic valve stenosis is not uncommon in young men—” Gordon began.

  “Not uncommon,” Mr. Heffer repeated scornfully. “What the hell does that mean? You’re contradicting yourself already!”

  “People were always making trouble for him!” Mrs. Heffer said. “Tommy was a good boy!”

  Mr. Heffer waved a fist. “My son was kidnapped!” he said. “Why else would he be way the hell out in Jersey?”

  Franny opened his notebook and readied his pen. “Do you know anyone who might want to kidnap Tom Junior?” he asked.

  Heffer stared at him in utter scorn. “That’s what you people are supposed to find out!” he said. He beat his chest again. “How the hell would I know who kidnapped him? Do I look like I hang around with kidnappers?”

  “Kidnapped!” Mrs. Heffer burst into tears. “He was probably kidnapped by that communist from down the street.”

  “Communist?” Confusion swam into Franny’s face. “What communist?”

  “He runs the tobacco shop,” Mrs. Heffer said. “He sells poison to the kids!”

  “How do you know he’s a communist?” Franny asked, and then they both began shouting at him.

  Gordon decided to interrupt with the one fact that might be relevant. “Tom Junior didn’t smoke,” he pointed out. The lungs had been pink and healthy.

  “Damn right Tommy didn’t smoke!” Mr. Heffer said.

  “He was a good boy!” Mrs. Heffer wailed.

  Perhaps it was the mention of tobacco that spurred Harvey Kant’s action. He drew a large cigar out of his gabardine jacket, snapped open his lighter, and brought the flame to the cigar’s tip. He puffed noisily and with great satisfaction, blowing out clouds of smoke. Mrs. Heffer sneezed. “Hey!” said Mr. Heffer. He pointed at the No Smoking sign. “You can’t do that in here!”

  “I’m the lieutenant,” Kant said. “I decide who smokes and who doesn’t.”

  Within a few minutes Kant had succeeded in gassing the Heffers into silence, after which he gave them the information necessary to claim their son’s body from the New Jersey morgue.

  Mr. Heffer managed to summon an echo of his earlier belligerence. “Jersey!” he said. “What’s my boy doing up there?”

  “It’s the Jersey cops’ case,” Kant said. “That’s where he was found.”

  Heffer sneered. “Why in hell are we talking to you, then?” he said.

  After the Heffers left, Gordon stood with Kant and Franny in the squad room. Gordon’s head swam, though he couldn’t tell whether it was from the cigar smoke or the Heffers’ shouting.

  Kant took a last draw on his cigar, then crushed the lit end against his scaly palm.

  “Right,” he said, and turned to Franny. “Tommy Heffer was kidnapped here and dumped in Jersey, the CO gave you this case, so liaise with the Jersey cops. Now—” He handed Franny the victim’s file. “In spite of what the mom said about his being a good boy, the vic had some scrapes with the law—drunk and disorderly, fighting, vandalism. He was never formally charged with anything, so he doesn’t have a record per se—but you can start by talking to the other kids who were arrested along with him.”

  “They’re not kids. One of them is this guy Eel,” Franny argued.

  “I know you’re the the big celebrity cop, but I’m the lieutenant.” Kant grinned. “So talk to the kids.”

  A muscle in Franny’s jaw moved. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Good boy.” Another gesture with the cigar. “The vic studied Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu,” Kant said. “And El Monstro was Brazilian. So there’s a connection, maybe, at the Jiu-Jitsu school.”

  Franny looked dubious. “El Monstro was working at least two jobs as well as going to college,” he said. “I doubt he had time to train in martial arts—especially as he didn’t need to. Anyone attacking him would just bounce off. And Eddie said some of the guys sounded Russian.”

  “Check it anyway,” said Kant.

  Kant ambled back to his desk. Franny looked at the file folder in his hand, and his lips tightened. “Fran?” Gordon asked.

  Franny jerked out of whatever thoughts were distracting him. “Yeah?”

  “When you see the Jersey cops, could you not mention I have a house out in Warren County?”

  “I didn’t know you had a place out there. But sure, okay.” Franny frowned. “Why?”

  “I go out there to relax and work on my own stuff. I don’t want to be the guy they call on weekends when their own medical examiner is drunk.”

  Which was true enough, though the shed full of rocket propellant had a lot more to do with why he preferred to remain invisible to his neighbors.

  Franny nodded slowly. “Sure. That makes sense.”

  “Thanks. See you later.”

  Gordon returned to his basement morgue and finished helping Gaida bag the shooting victim, after which Gaida went to lunch and Gordon signed off on the last of the paperwork while gnawing on a log of homemade pemmican. He heard a knock on the door and looked up to see Dina Quattore. “Come in,” he said.

  Dina was in uniform, curly black hair sprouting from beneath her peaked cap. The radio at her hip hissed and squawked.

  “Just wanted to let you know another stiff is on its way,” she said. “Elderly street joker, walked in front of a bus while drunk, stoned, or otherwise impaired.”

  “Am I needed at the crime scene?”

  “No. Plenty of witnesses to what happened.”

  “Okay.” Gordon capped his pen and offered his plastic container of pemmican. “Care for some?”

  Dina approached and peered at the dark brown pemmican logs. “What is it?”

  “Pemmican.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Ground venison,” Gordon said, “rendered suet…”

  “Wait a minute!” Dina yelped. “You’re offering me a roadkill meat bar?”

  “It also has dried fruit, nuts, and honey,” Gordon pointed out. “Very nutritious. Everything your Mohawk warrior needs on the trail—good for quick energy, and you can store it for years.”

  “How many years has this—?” Dina began, then shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll stick with the turkey sandwich I got at Mussolini’s.”

  “Bring it and we’ll have lunch, if you have the time.”

  Dina co
nsidered this. “You may not have the time, with the stiff coming.”

  Gordon shrugged. “The deceased won’t be in a hurry.”

  “True that.” Dina went upstairs to her locker, then returned with the plastic-wrapped sandwich and a can of Diet Pepsi. She parked herself on a plastic chair near the X-ray machine, then began to unwrap her sandwich. She looked at him from under the brim of her cap.

  “Is it true what they say about you?” she asked.

  “Depends,” Gordon said. “What do they say?”

  “That you build rockets?”

  He hadn’t realized any of the police officers actually knew that. Gaida, he thought, must have talked. Still, there was no reason to lie. “Yes,” he said.

  “How big?”

  He preferred evasion. “Different sizes,” he said.

  “Gaida says you’re going to shoot yourself to the moon,” Dina said.

  “Well,” he said. “I’d need help.” He told her about the Koopman Prize, and how anyone with a decent design was eligible. Dina chewed her turkey sandwich thoughtfully, then took a sip of her Pepsi. “I’m trying to figure you out, Doc,” she said.

  Gordon considered this. “I don’t know that I’m particularly mysterious.”

  “You’re not hidden,” Dina said, “but I’m not sure how all the parts fit together.”

  Gordon had never considered himself as a collection of randomly ordered parts and had no answer to this. He took a bite of his pemmican and chewed.

  Dina took off her cap and hung it from the X-ray machine. “You know,” she said, “I think you’re some kind of goofy romantic.”

  “Uhh—” Gordon began, uncertain. He had never categorized himself this way.

  “Yeah!” Dina said, suddenly enthusiastic. “You cut up bodies as part of your crusade for justice! You want to plant the flag on another world!” She pointed at the pemmican. “And you recycle dead animals!”

  Gordon blinked. “I usually autopsy them first.”

  She frowned. “Okay,” she said. “That’s disturbing.”

  “I learn stuff,” he said.

  He was about to object to being called a romantic and say that he was interested in the way jokers were put together in the same way that he was interested in the way rockets were put together—but then it occurred to him that if Dina thought of him as a romantic, that might say good things about her intentions toward him.