Ama Situwa. Ayuamarcan. Lost to the world ten years ago. Returns
(how?)
and gets killed in the Skylight
(why?)
in room 812. Not much of a biography. No hints of who she was or how she lived. Was there a specific reason she was chosen to die instead of anyone else I know? And is the corpse really Ama Situwa? I still don’t buy into this resurrection business, though it’s getting harder to discredit. She could be someone who merely looked like the woman I remember. An elaborate red herring.
Sines will be able to help on that front. He’ll take fingerprints, dental impressions and DNA samples. Check them against the records. I’m sure there are no files on Ama Situwa—the villacs did a thorough job of removing all traces of the Ayuamarcans—but if this is another woman, we might strike it lucky.
I doze off while sitting next to my tiny living room window, contemplating the various twists and possibilities. I dream of room 812 in the Skylight and the three women who’ve been murdered there, Nicola Hornyak, Ellen Fraser and
(until proven otherwise)
Ama Situwa. In my dreams I’m present at the executions, which blend together into one nightmarish scene of perpetual murder. I stand by the foot of the bed as Nicola’s tied down. I hear Ellen scream. She calls my name and I reach to help, but I’m powerless. A large woman—Valerie Thomas, one of the villacs’ tools—pushes me away and laughs. A blind priest wraps his arms around me and holds me as Priscilla Perdue carves a symbol into Ama Situwa’s back, her knife impossibly large, the blood impossibly red. As it pools on the floor, faces form—Capac Raimi’s, Leonora Shankar’s, mine. No, not mine… my father’s. The real Paucar Wami smiles at me and murmurs, “Reasons for a refund, hmm, Al m’boy?”
As I’m trying to think of a reply, Wami’s face explodes in a geyser of blood that splatters the walls and ceiling. The blood covers me. It’s hot. I scream. And suddenly I’m lying on the bed and a villac is carving the flesh of my back to pieces. Incredible pain. He’s chanting. I’m screaming. Nicola, Ellen and Ama Situwa stand in a semicircle in front of me, naked, making love, laughing at my misfortune. The carving lasts an eternity.
“Flesh of Dreams,” the priest sings, and the women echo him. I cover my ears with my hands (not thinking to attack my tormentors with them), but the sounds penetrate the bloodstained flesh and bones. High-pitched, shrill, driving me to the verge of madness. I open my mouth to shriek. Blood gushes. And still the ringing of the women’s voices… ringing…
My eyes snap open but the noise follows me out of my dream. Heart racing, I look for blind priests, then realize it’s only my phone. Letting out a shaky breath, I wipe the last images of the nightmare from my thoughts and dig my cell out of a pocket. “Hello?” I answer, checking my watch. 04:19.
“Jeery? It’s Dr. Sines.”
I sit up. “What’s wrong?”
“Your corpse—the woman in the Skylight.”
“What about her?”
“She vanished.”
For a moment I think I’m still dreaming, but that impression is short-lived. “Where are you?” I ask.
“The Fridge.”
“I’ll be right over.”
As I slip on my shoes, I think I hear someone whisper, “Flesh of Dreams.” But it’s only a residue of the nightmare.
“How the fuck could she disappear?” I roar, punching the door of Sines’s office and kicking a spare chair out of my way. I’ve been here ten minutes and my rage has increased with every passing second. The doctor sits at his desk, impassive, waiting for my fury to pass. If he’s afraid of me, he masks it well.
“Tell me again what happened,” I snarl, leaning on the desk, putting my face close to his, watching for the slightest trace of a lie.
“I’ve told you three times already,” he says, meeting my gaze without blinking.
“So tell me a fourth!”
“You think it will help?”
“Start talking or I’ll help you through the fucking window.”
Sines sneers. “Quit chewing the scenery. It doesn’t become you.”
“You think this is a joke?” I yell. “You think this is a fucking—”
“Sit down. Stop shouting. Take deep breaths. Hold your hands out until they stop shaking. Then I’ll tell you again—for the last time,” he adds pointedly.
I want to rip out his eyes, but that wouldn’t do any good, so I pick up the chair, sit and breathe. Eventually my teeth stop chattering and the veil of rage lifts. “I’m sorry I shouted.”
Sines nods. “Better.” He launches into his story, keeping it brief. “I oversaw the initial examination of the corpse in the Skylight, as you requested. Made sure the area was dusted for prints and that nothing was disturbed.”
“Did you dust the body?”
“Yes, but only to check for obvious, clumsy traces of her killer. There weren’t any. I was saving the in-depth study for when I got back to the Fridge. Once I’d done all I could in the Skylight, I had her transferred to a gurney, then downstairs to the hearse.”
“Why a hearse?” I interrupt. “Why not an ambulance?”
He withers me with a smile. “Ambulances are for hospitals, where they treat the living. This is a morgue. We don’t have much use for resuscitative—”
“As I was saying,” he continues, running an arrogant hand through his hair, “we transferred the body to the hearse. I was with it the entire time. We collapsed the legs of the gurney, slid it inside, strapped it down, locked the doors. The driver and I got in and set off. We made good time. Opened the doors when we got here, slid the gurney out, and the body wasn’t there.” He coughs. “I can’t explain how, but it vanished in transit.”
“Just like that?” I snort.
He glares at me. “I know how it sounds, but there’s no way it could have fallen out or been abducted. We were with it the whole way. You can check the hearse, but I assure you there are no false panels or gaping holes in the floor.”
“Bodies don’t vanish into thin air,” I remark icily.
“I agree,” he sighs, “but as Sherlock Holmes was fond of saying, when all other probabilities have been eliminated, what remains, however improbable, is the real shit.”
“I don’t think he put it quite that way,” I smile.
“You could be right.” Sines stands and heads for the door. “Let’s go give the hearse the once-over. You won’t believe me until you’ve seen it for yourself. Who knows, you might find something I overlooked. To be honest,” he mutters with uncharacteristic humility, “I rather hope you do.”
The hearse is inviolate. No secret panels in the sides, a solid floor, reliable lock. I suggest someone might have forced the lock while the hearse was stopped at traffic lights. “Impossible,” Sines says. “Traffic’s nonexistent at four in the morning and we were in a hurry to get back, so we broke a few rules of the road and didn’t stop for any lights.”
“Somebody on the roof? They could have worked on the lock while you were driving, slid out the body and…” I stop, realizing how weak that sounds.
Sines shrugs. “I thought of that too. It makes more sense than the suggestion that the body simply vanished, but it fails to account for the alarm.” Sines closes the doors at the back of the hearse, locks them, then takes out a different key and tries to insert it into the lock. A siren blares, which the doctor quickly silences by hitting a button on the hearse’s key fob.
“We’ve had bodies stolen before,” he explains. “The alarms have been standard issue for twenty years. They’re updated annually to keep ahead of those with a talent for break-ins. To cling to the roof of a moving car, and not be seen, and unlock the doors without triggering the alarm…” He shakes his head.
I stare at the lock, then circle the hearse again, racking my brain for an explanation. Sines watches expressionlessly. When I return, he says, “Know what I’d recommend as a doctor?”
“What?”
“Go home. Sleep it off. The mystery will still be here in the morning. It won’t be any clearer, but you’ll be in better shape to deal with it.”
And since there’s nothing else I can do except stand here and go mad, I follow the good doctor’s advice.
Surprisingly, I sleep soundly, no nightmares, waking in the early afternoon on an excessively hot Sunday. Over a bowl of cereal, I reflect on my visits to the Skylight and Fridge, and where I go from here. The more I think about it, the more I’m drawn to the theory that Ama Situwa (or whoever was killed in the hotel) wasn’t a random plant. The previous women killed in 812 were both closely linked to me—my girlfriend and ex-wife—so I’m sure there’s a reason why this latest sacrificial lamb was chosen, other than the fact that we met briefly ten years ago.
To get to the heart of that reason, I’ll have to find out more about Ama Situwa. If the woman in 812 was a ringer, I’ll deal with that later. For the time being I’ll take the line that it was really Situwa.
It isn’t difficult deciding where to start. As an Ayuamarcan, her name will have been wiped from all city records and nobody will remember her. The only place I might find a history of her is in Party Central, in the personal files of the original keeper of the Ayuamarca secrets.
Ford Tasso isn’t surprised when I turn up demanding an audience, but he makes me wait almost an hour while he deals with more immediate problems. Somebody’s been hitting key members in the organization, business executives, generals in the Troops. The assassin strikes without warning and without fail. At first Tasso thought it was one of Davern’s men, but the Kluxers have also come under attack. Five of Davern’s closest aides have been killed, including his best friend, Dan Kerrin. It seems there’s a third player in town, stirring things up, but nobody has a clue who it is.
Eventually I’m admitted. Tasso’s lying on a newly installed couch, an ice pack over his eyes, massaging the dead flesh of his right arm and shoulder. He looks fit for the grave. “I used to complain about the nursing home,” he groans as I take a seat. “Didn’t know how lucky I was. I’d give anything to go back.”
“What’s stopping you? You’ve given it your best shot, but you’re old and lame. Nobody would blame you if you called it a day.”
“I’d blame me,” he growls, removing the ice pack. “And less of the ‘old and lame’ shit.” His good eye is red and bleary. I doubt he’s slept more than a handful of hours since we last met. I don’t know what he’s running on. I guess he’s like the dinosaurs—too stupid to know when he should lie down and die. “I had Sines on the phone earlier, telling me what happened. Reckon he’s fucking with us?”
“Not Sines,” I answer confidently.
“Any idea who took the body and how?”
“It could have been the villacs. They have the power to screw with people’s minds. They might have hijacked the body at the Skylight, then brainwashed Sines and the driver to believe it vanished mysteriously en route.”
“Don’t see why they’d go to so much trouble,” Tasso growls, “but that’s better than anything I can think of. So, what next?”
“What shape are the files in on the floors above?” I ask.
“Better than they used to be. Dorak must have had some sort of system but he never revealed it to anybody. It was a nightmare when he died—shit everywhere. Raimi’s had people sifting through the mess, filing relevant articles together. They’re nowhere near finished, but if they can’t find what you’re looking for, they can maybe point you in the right direction. What are you after?”
“The woman in the Skylight was Ama Situwa.”
Tasso’s eye narrows. “The one on the Ayuamarca list?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought they were all dead.”
“So did I. We were wrong, or it was someone made up to look like her. Either way, it’s time I learned some more about Miss Situwa. You said Raimi believed he was seeing Ayuamarcans before he disappeared. If I can find out where they—or the impostors—are coming from, it might lead me to your missing Cardinal.”
Tasso nods thoughtfully. “The files are yours. Most of the Ayuamarca material has been lumped together. I can get a secretary to lead you to it.” He raises a warning finger. “There’s a lot of sensitive shit up there, Algiers. Don’t go looking where you ain’t meant to.”
“Ford,” I grin, “don’t you trust me?”
“Get the fuck out,” he snarls in reply.
The Ayuamarca file is massive, more than a dozen oversized folders bulging with fact sheets, detectives’ reports, newspaper clippings, photographs, DVDs and Dorak’s own handwritten notes. All of the files have one thing in common—the people they relate to have no background histories, as befits creatures who were allegedly brought back from the dead.
I never realized how many people Dorak supposedly created, or how many positions of authority they filled. Three mayors, two police chiefs, several senior judges, the presidents of some of the most influential banks and companies, many gang leaders. Whenever the former Cardinal couldn’t crack a rival legitimately, he invented an Ayuamarcan and sent him to his rival’s camp as an insider, with orders to cause maximum disruption.
I could spend weeks examining these dusty ledgers and files, learning about the city and the men and women who shaped it over the course of the last half century. But I have a mystery to unravel. Some day, maybe, I’ll come back and browse. Right now there’s Ama Situwa to account for.
Her file isn’t bulky—she only entered the fray a year before Dorak died—but it’s thorough. Height, weight, measurements, hair clippings, receipts, hundreds of photos—including several of her making love with Capac Raimi on the stairs of Party Central.
That reminds me of something I’d forgotten. Ama Situwa was on the roof when Dorak made his fatal plunge. I was listening in on his final conversation with his successor, and from what I picked up, Situwa was Raimi’s true love. He condemned her to oblivion with the other Ayuamarcans by demanding Dorak leap to his death, but it wasn’t an easy decision. I can’t believe I hadn’t remembered that before. Maybe I’m starting to catch the forgetfulness bug at last. I might end up like everybody else if I’m not careful, no memories of Paucar Wami, Leonora Shankar or the others.
I scour Situwa’s file for clues to where she or her look-alike might have chosen to hang out. The Ayuamarcan lived with her supposed father, Cafran Reed, but I’ve already had words with him. There were a few restaurants and bars she favored, so I jot down the names—I’ll visit them and flash Situwa’s photos around, in case she’s been back recently. I also take the names and addresses of her hairdresser, the beauty parlors she graced, shops she frequented and the gym where she kept in shape.
Not many friends. Plenty of business acquaintances—Reed was grooming her to run his restaurant—but bosom buddies were scarce. A waitress at Cafran’s, Shelly Odone, was closest to her, but they were hardly blood sisters. They went for occasional meals together, hit the clubs every so often. Still, the real Situwa might have looked her up, so I copy down Odone’s address—noting in brackets that it’s probably changed after so many years—and pencil in the names of a few of her casual friends, on the off chance that one knows anything about her.
And that’s it. I go through the file two more times but there’s nothing else to be gleaned. No sisters or daughters (if the woman I saw in the Skylight was a ringer, it’s possible she was a relative). No mention of the villacs. No links to criminal organizations.
I lay the file aside and massage my eyelids. My eyesight’s as good as ever, but lately I’ve found my eyes pain me if I focus on small print too long. I’m getting old. I’ll have them seen to if the condition worsens. It shouldn’t pose much of a problem. Just change my green contacts for prescription lenses.
My contacts… Paucar Wami…
I lower my hand and glance around furtively. I’m alone in an office on the seventeenth floor, where the secretary left me once she’d carted in the files. Tasso warned me to stick to the facts pertinent to the case, but the opportunity to learn more about my father is too good to pass up. In particular, it would be interesting to find out the names of his other children. Apparently he sired many sons and daughters, in this city and farther abroad. He never told me their names, or how many there were, but I’m sure his master would have known.
I check the names on all the files but Wami’s isn’t among them. I go through them again, looking inside each folder in case his is nestling inside another—no joy. Pressing a button, I summon the secretary, a plump and genial woman called Betsy. “Are these all of the Ayuamarca files?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“Could you check again? Or, better still, take me to where the files are kept, so I can look for myself?”
She hesitates. “I think I should check with Mr. Tasso first.”
I shrug. “If you want to bother him, go ahead. I can wait.”
She frowns. “I know he’s busy… He did say you could have unlimited access to the files… OK,” she decides. “But I won’t leave you alone.”
“Perish the thought,” I smile and follow Betsy out of the office.
We pass several other secretaries as we make our way to where the files are stored. They’re busy working on the pillars of paper that stretch to the ceiling in some places, dismantling the towers, making notes of what’s in each, carefully restacking or refiling them.
“Is this a twenty-four-hour operation?” I ask.
“Pretty much,” Betsy answers. “There are only twelve of us—Mr. Raimi says that twelve’s the most Jesus trusted, and what’s good enough for Christ is good enough for him.” She giggles at the soft blasphemy. “We work in groups of six, twelve-hour shifts, though we take long breaks.”
“Do you work seven days a week?”
“Alternate weekends off, and very long holidays.” We come to a rectangular gap, four feet across by eleven or twelve deep, between two six-foot-high pillars of paper. Betsy stops. “We keep the files here.”
I walk into the gap, eyes peeled for an overlooked file, but there isn’t any. “Is this the only place they’re stored?”
“There could be others elsewhere, but these are all we’ve found so far.”
“Who stacked them?”
“We all chipped in, but I did more than most. Mr. Raimi was very concerned about these files and he spent a lot of time up here, overseeing their transfer. As a senior secretary, I worked closely with him.”
“Did he ask you to keep any files separate from the others?”
“No.”
“He didn’t take any himself, to stack elsewhere?”
“No.” She blushes—lying.
“Come on,” I smile. “You can tell me. I have the authority.”
“Mr. Raimi might not like it if I—”
“Betsy,” I interrupt. “The Cardinal’s missing. I’m trying to find him. If you don’t tell me, you’ll be hindering, not helping.”
She sighs and nods. “There was one file he pulled.”
“Paucar Wami’s?” I guess.
“No—his own.”
That’s disappointing, but it makes sense. A man in his position would want to keep his secrets hidden where only he’d have access to them.
“But now that you mention it,” Betsy adds, “he also asked me to look for a file on Paucar Wami.” She leans in close and whispers, “He was a notorious serial killer. The things he’s supposed to have done…” She shivers.
I hide a grin—if I wiped my cheeks clean, Betsy would be in for one hell of a shock—and ask if she found the Wami file. “No. We’ve searched high and low but we haven’t unearthed it yet. Mr. Raimi thinks it was stolen, though he never said who he suspected.”
I have a strong hunch—the villacs. They mustn’t have wanted him learning about Wami and his heirs. So much for brushing up on “dear ol’ pappy’s” past and tracking down my brothers and sisters. Oh well, it’s a distraction I can do without. Better to stay focused on the case.
“What are these other files?” I ask, gesturing to the towers of paper surrounding the barren rectangle.
“The files on the left are unrelated,” Betsy says. “Those on the right and at the rear contain details of people mentioned in the Ayuamarca files—family, friends or business associates of the Ayuamarcans.”
That’s interesting. I might learn more about Ama Situwa’s friends through these. Digging out my notebook, I reacquaint myself with the names I jotted down, then scan the indexed spines. “I could be at this a while,” I tell Betsy. “You can slip away if you want.”
“No thank you,” she smiles. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I can’t.”
I read up from the bottom of the second pillar on the right. The names are ordered alphabetically. I’m looking for a Sarah Ceccione, a sales rep friend of Situwa’s. I jump to the end of the B’s and begin on the C’s. “It looks like the one I want is near the top,” I mutter. “Could you get a ladder or…”
I stumble to a halt, eyes settling on a name far more familiar than Sarah Ceccione’s. Heart beating fast, I grab the file by the edges and tug.
“Hey!” Betsy pushes me away with unexpected strength. “You’ll bring the whole lot tumbling down.”
“I don’t care,” I grunt, trying to get at the file.
Betsy blocks me, a no-nonsense expression on her face. “I care,” she huffs. “I’ll have to tidy up after. Tell me which one you want and I’ll remove the others, nice and neat, and get it out for you without creating a mess.”
My fingers twitch—I want it in my hands now—but it’s best to keep Betsy on my side. “That one,” I croak, pointing with a trembling finger. “The file marked BILL CASEY.”