Every Dead Thing

The easiest way of all is to take on another’s identity, someone who won’t be missed, someone from the margins. My guess was that, with Hyams’s help, Adelaide Modine took on the identity of the girl who burned to death in a Virginia ruin.

“There’s more,” said Martin. “There was a separate file on the Modines. The photos from that are all gone as well.”

“Could Hyams have got access to those files?”

I could hear Martin sigh at the other end of the phone.

“Sure,” he said eventually. “He was the town lawyer. He was trusted by everyone.”

“Check the motels again. I reckon you’ll find Catherine Demeter’s belongings in one of them. There might be something there.”

“Man, you gotta come back here, sort this out. There’s a lot of bodies here and your name is co

“Just do what you can. I’m not coming in.”

I hung up and tried another number. “Yeah,” answered a voice.

“Angel. It’s Bird.”

“Where the fuck have you been? Things are going down here. Are you on the cell phone? Call me back on a land-line.”

I called him back seconds later from a phone outside a convenience store.

“Some of the old man’s goons have picked up Pili Pilar. They’re holding him until Bobby Sciorra gets back from some trip. It’s bad. He’s being held in isolation at the Ferrera place-anyone talks to him and they get it in the head. Only Bobby gets access to him.”

“Did they get So

“No, he’s still out there, but he’s alone now. He’s go

“I’m in trouble, Angel.” I explained to him briefly what had taken place. “I’m coming back but I need something from you and Louis.”

“Just ask, man.”

I gave him the address of the warehouse. “Watch the place. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

I didn’t know how long it would take them to start tracking me. I drove as far as Richmond and parked the Mustang in a long-term parking garage. Then I made some calls. For fifteen hundred dollars I bought silence and a flight on a small plane from a private airfield back to the city.

27

“YOU SURE you wa

“I’m sure,” I replied.

“This is a tough area.”

“That’s okay. I have tough friends.”

The Morelli wine warehouse was one of a number of similar premises that lined one side of a long, ill-lit street west of Northern Boulevard in Flushing. It was a redbrick building, its name reduced to a white, flaking shadow below the edge of its roof. Wire screens covered the windows on both the ground and upper levels. There were no visible lights on the walls; the area between the gate and the main building was in almost total darkness.

On the other side of the street stood the entrance to a large yard filled with storage depots and railroad containers. The ground inside was pitted with ponds of filthy water and discarded pallets. I saw a mongrel dog, its ribs almost bursting through its fur, tearing at something in the dim light of the lot’s filthy spotlights.

As I stepped from the cab, headlights flashed briefly from the alleyway by the warehouse. Seconds later, as the cab pulled away, Angel and Louis emerged from the black Chevy van, Angel carrying a heavy-looking training bag, Louis immaculate in a black leather coat, a black suit, and a black polo shirt.

Angel screwed up his face as he drew nearer. It wasn’t hard to see why. My suit was torn and covered with mud and dirt from the encounter with Hyams in the Dane house. My arm had begun to bleed again and the right cuff of my shirt was a deep red color. I ached all over and I was tired of death.

“You look good,” said Angel. “Where’s the dance?”

I looked toward the Morelli warehouse. “In there. Have I missed anything?”

“Not here. Louis just got back from Ferrera’s place, though.”

“Bobby Sciorra arrived there about an hour ago by chopper,” said Louis. “Reckon him and Pili are having a real heart-to-heart.”

I nodded. “Let’s go,” I said.

The warehouse was surrounded by a high brick wall topped with barbed wire and spiked fencing. The gate, inset slightly as the wall curved inward at the entrance, was also wire topped and solid except for a gap where a heavy lock and chain linked its two halves together. While Louis lounged semidiscreetly nearby, Angel removed a small, custom-built drill from his bag and inserted the bit into the lock. He pressed the trigger and a high-pitched grinding sound seemed to fill the night. Instantly, every dog in the vicinity started to bark.

“Shit, Angel, you got a fuckin’ whistle built into that thing?” hissed Louis. Angel ignored him and moments later the lock fell open.

We entered and Angel gingerly removed the lock and placed it inside the gate. He replaced the chain so that to a casual observer it would still appear secure if, oddly, locked from the inside.

The warehouse dated from the thirties but would have appeared functional even then. Old doors at the right and left sides had been sealed shut, leaving only one way in at the front. Even the fire exit at the back had been welded in place. The security lights, which might once have lit up the yard, now no longer functioned and the illumination from the streetlights did not penetrate the darkness here.

Angel went to work on the lock with a selection of picks, a small flashlight in his mouth, and less than a minute later we were in, lighting our heavy Mags as we went. A small booth, which was probably once occupied by a security guard or watchman when the building was in use, stood directly inside the door. Empty shelves stretched along the walls of the room, paralleled by similar shelving through the center, creating two aisles. The shelves were separated into alcoves, each sufficient to hold a bottle of wine. The floor was stone. This had originally been the display area where visitors could examine the stock. Below, in the cellars, was where the cases were kept. At the far end of the room stood a raised office, reached by three stairs to the right.

Beside the small flight of stairs up to the office, a larger staircase descended down. There was also an old freight elevator, unlocked. Angel stepped in and pulled the lever, and the lift descended a foot or two. He brought it back to its original level, stepped out again, and raised an eyebrow at me.

We started down the stairs. There were four flights, the equivalent of two stories, but there were no other floors between the shop floor and the cellars. At the base was another locked door, this one wooden with a glass window through which the flashlight beam revealed the cellar’s arches. I left Angel to the lock. It took him seconds to open the door. He looked ill at ease entering the cellars. The training bag appeared suddenly heavy in his hand.

“Want me to take that for a while?” asked Louis.

“When I’m that old you’ll be feeding me through a straw,” replied Angel. Although the cellars were cool, he licked at sweat on his upper lip.

“Practically feeding you through a straw already,” muttered the voice from behind us.

In the basement, a series of curved, cavelike alcoves stretched away before us. Each had bars ru