Chapter Eleven

Sedecla sat in a high-backed, padded office chair behind a very modern-looking black steel and chrome desk with a Plexiglas top. The desk seemed out of place in the room, which was decorated in a lavish Middle Eastern style, with tapestries adorning the blood-red brick walls. Rich carpets accented the polished hardwood floors in addition to numerous objects d’art that would have made the director of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts offer to trade for his eldest child. Yet, the oasis of modernity somehow managed to complement the classical décor that surrounded it. The sun streamed in through the windows that lined the corner of her private office on the third floor of her home. She had her long black hair pulled back in a severe braid and was dressed in business attire today—an ivory and burgundy tailored business suit, with burgundy high heel shoes. She wore her skandola ring, but since she had meetings outside her house, she also wore diamond teardrop earrings and a Royal Blue Tourbillion watch from Ulysse Nardin.

An iPad 2 sat in front of Sedecla, but she paid little attention to it and none at all to the reports to which her attention was being directed. Her accountant was a small, stout man, with pale green eyes that hid behind thick glasses, thinning blonde hair, and the nervous habit of straightening his tie every few minutes. While not a member of Sedecla’s cult, Leonard Taylor nonetheless viewed her with a great deal of respect. Although in this worm’s case, Sedecla thought, more like abject terror. Taylor droned on about her financial situation. Each of her managers had to provide her with a financial accounting, but Taylor’s job was to monitor her cash flow and manage her investments.

Finally, as she had already seen with a quick glance that everything was in order, Sedecla interrupted her accountant’s reedy monotone. “Very good, Leonard. You are doing your usual job.” She fixed her hazel eyes upon him. “Do you have any issues that require my attention?” she demanded.

Taylor quailed. “No, Mistress. Your financial portfolio continues to grow impressively.”

“Excellent,” she replied, with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Taylor rose and bowed clumsily, juggling to get everything back into his large black leather portfolio. He bowed again, then turned and scurried from the room.

After the door had closed, Sedecla laughed. “Tomás, I do believe that if I were to shout ‘Boo,’ Taylor would die of heart failure,” she said to the tall, muscular man standing impassively behind her to the right. At six foot eight, Tomás Eduardo Fortunato da Silva bore almost three hundred pounds of weight, all muscle and sinew. Known to his friends as “Lucky,” the Anglicization of Fortunato, his mother’s maiden name, he had been Sedecla’s seneschal for fifteen years. He was forty, and of Portuguese descent. He had started in the Mazzimah, rose to manager for that group and then to the position as her primary guardian and household administrator. Lucky was known for his ruthlessness and efficiency, whether the task was supervising the activities of her staff or disposing of a troublesome individual.

Lucky laughed, a raspy sound, and smiled, which served to harden his chiseled face further. His dark brown eyes missed little. “Indeed, Mistress.” He paused for a second, but to Sedecla, it spoke volumes. She waited for him to continue. “There is another matter that requires your attention.”

Sedecla looked at the massive man. “Really?” Tomás required very little direction from her and brought only serious matters to her attention. “Please continue.” She nodded at him.

Lucky pressed a button on his push-to-talk phone and said, “Now.” After a few seconds, another door to Sedecla’s private office opened, this time from the direction of her study, where none save the trusted household staff were permitted. Two of Tomás’ men came in, dragging a hysterical Ayfa between them. The two men shoved her forward, and the young woman fell to her knees with a terrified expression. “Mistress, it’s not true. It’s not true. I would never. Never—” She broke down into incoherent sobs.

Sedecla stood and walked around her desk to stand before Ayfa. She then asked, over her shoulder, “What is this all about, Tomás?”

Lucky stepped forward to stand beside Sedecla in front of the sobbing girl. “She was found listening at the stairs atop your public office.” The ground floor of Sedecla’s building included a public office where she met with outsiders, such as the meddling police officers. It also housed the garage as well as the hidden entrance to her underground quarters, located in the catacombs beneath the house. “I noticed this,” continued Lucky, “so I had her watched. My tenetes observed her subsequently loitering and listening several times in places and times that she should not have been.”

“No.” shrieked Ayfa. “No, no, no, no, no. Mistress, they lie.”

Sedecla took her handmaiden’s tear-streaked face in her left hand. “They lie, you say?” She turned to her seneschal. “Tomás, whom do you believe in this matter?”

“My tenetes,” he replied without hesitation, his words sounding like a death knell.

Ayfa’s wordless cry of denial was cut short when Sedecla slapped the young woman hard with her right hand, knocking her to the floor. “Raca,” Sedecla hissed as Ayfa turned her face back to face her mistress. “What did you think to learn? Do you spy on me for someone?”

“No, no, no—” began Ayfa.

Her denials were silenced by another slap, this time with Sedecla’s left hand, which bore the skandola ring and left a huge red mark on Ayfa’s face. The young woman stayed down on the carpet, sobbing softly.

“Tomás,” Sedecla softly said. “Have your men take Ayfa down into the catacombs.”

The pronouncement caused Ayfa to lunge to her feet, and she began a wordless scream that was stifled by Sedecla’s hand darting out and clamping down fiercely on her throat. “Silence, traitor.” She held her iron grip on the girl’s throat until Ayfa passed out, and then she tossed her back into the waiting arms of Lucky’s tenetes. “Take her downstairs. I will be along momentarily to take her life force as payment for her treason.” The two men nodded and wordlessly took the unconscious woman from the room.

After a few seconds, Sedecla turned to Lucky. “Well done, Tomás,” she said, placing a hand upon his brawny forearm.

She turned back to her desk, upon which sat a decorative bowl filled with peanut M & Ms, for which she had a weakness. She took several and popped them into her mouth one at a time. When she was finished, Sedecla turned back to Tomás. “However, I’m afraid you will now have to find me a new handmaiden.”

Tomás nodded his assent and followed Sedecla from the room. “It’s so hard to find good help these days,” Sedecla said as she descended to take the life of her former servant.

* * * *

Rufus Choate sat in his office and frowned as he scanned various reports and files. He had been charged with finding ways to bring pressure upon the police investigating her. So far, he had not had any luck. This is not good. That obsequious gnat, ibn Ezra has said he will be bringing her something important, as has O’Neill. While Choate was not fond of the cop, he despised the cleric. I need to find something before our next meeting. He had been Sedecla’s property manager for just over a dozen years, but Rufus was under no illusions about his employer’s loyalty should he ever fail to prove his worth. It was, in fact, how he had been promoted to his current position. The man who had previously held his office had somehow offended Sedecla, which not only resulted in Rufus’ promotion, but his first observation of her necromantic rituals. It was a lesson that had stayed with him to this day.

“Mrs. Fanning.” Choate called out, his voice thundering down the hall.

Vera Fanning had been Choate’s assistant for five years now. The woman shuffled into the room. “You bellowed, Mister Choate?” she croaked. She was overweight, though nowhere near Choate’s level. Her dirty gray hair rested in a bun on top of her head. Fanning wore what Choate always thought of as “old woman’s glasses,” which now hung from a chain about her neck. Her floral print dress was not flattering.

Choate gestured to the stacks of paper upon his desk. “Please re-file these and bring me the last stack of lease agreements.”

Mrs. Fanning shambled to Choate’s desk and picked up a large stack of files. “Very well, Mister Choate.” She then walked out of the room and down the hall to the filing room.

Choate was drumming his thick fingers upon the desktop as Fanning plodded back into his office with another thick stack of folders. “Here you are, Mister Choate.” She turned to leave.

As she neared the door, Choate said, “Why on earth do I keep you around, Mrs. Fanning? I swear my mother moves faster than you and she’s been dead for two years.”

Vera Fanning stopped at the door and slowly rotated to face her employer. “I don’t know, Mister Choate, but when you hired me, you never said anything about requiring a track star.” Her face was set in a bland stare and she spoke in a dusty, dry manner. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Choate waved a meaty hand. “No, go. I will call if I need anything further.”

“You mean you’ll shout if you need anything further,” Fanning replied as she left the room.

Choate watched her trudge back down the hall to her desk in the reception area, then turned to the last stack of lease agreements. While all of his new lease agreements were scanned into the computer system after execution, his older lease agreements had not been scanned. Choate preferred to take care of that issue through attrition, as tenants moved out.

After another hour of fruitless searching, Choate sat up straighter in his chair. Then he turned to his computer and pounded out a query into a background check service. It took several seconds and a couple of false trails, but Choate finally found what he was looking for, and he laughed roughly, short grunt-like breaths, a mixture of relief and triumph. “Mrs. Fanning.” he yelled, because he knew that it annoyed her. “You may come take the remaining files.” Once his assistant had flowed glacially into and out of his office, Choate opened his bottom desk drawer, removed a heavy tumbler and a bottle of Woodford Reserve Jack Daniels, and poured himself two fingers. Replacing the bottle in the bottom drawer, Choate raised his glass in a silent toast and took a deep drink of the bourbon. The warmth of the liquor was secondary to the warmth he felt at finding out that Samuel Properties was the leaseholder of Ceoil Scoil, a music store owned and operated in Dorchester by Eileen Griffin, the wife of that interfering cop, Jamie Griffin. Choate laughed nastily and finished his bourbon.

* * * *

“I know you’re upset, Jamie,” replied Eileen, exasperation lacing her voice, “and I know it’s because you’re sick.” She sat in a chair beside her husband. They had been looking over their financial situation, which was turning grim. Eileen was the family accountant, and she was good at it, performing the basic bookkeeping for both their personal and her business accounts. “I’m not passing judgment here. I’m just pointing out the facts. First, you’ve run out of sick leave and vacation time, which means you no longer have an income. There’s not a thing you can do about that, my love—you’re sick. Second, even though we’ve got my income, it’s not enough. We’ve been slowly siphoning from our savings account and now our retirement funds. At the rate we’re going, we’ve only got a couple of months, three at the most, before we run out of money.”

Eileen was unhappy to have to admit that fact. While they did their best to save money, they had three daughters in school, one in college, and two in a private high school. Fortunately, they owed very little on their house or car and had almost no credit card debt.

Eileen looked at her husband. Jamie’s face was set in a grim look that combined anger and shame. She had come to know this look all too well in the past weeks. Jamie felt guilty that he was still unable to work and angry at the world for being in this situation. He said nothing, so Eileen continued. “Third, we’ve been cutting back where we can, but our core expenses—utilities, groceries, education, and household expenses are as low as they can realistically go. So there’s only one conclusion—we have to do something soon or we will be in serious financial doo-doo.”

Jamie arched an eyebrow. “Doo-doo? Really? Financial doo-doo?”

Eileen flushed. She rarely swore, and when she did, she preferred to use nonsensical terms wherever possible. “Sugar plum fairies. You know what I mean Séamus Edward Griffin, so don’t go giving me a hard time about my swearing.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call what you do swearing.”

“You swear your way and I’ll swear mine.” Eileen replied heatedly. “So, if you’re quite finished being a comedian, do you have anything useful to suggest?”

Jamie grew angry, even though he knew Eileen was right, even though he knew he wasn’t helping the situation. He picked up a handful of forms on the desk. “No, I don’t, but I don’t think this is the answer.” Jamie shook the forms.

“Then what is the answer?” Eileen cried. “We don’t have enough money coming in. I don’t know how much more plainly I can put it. We’re nearly broke, Jamie.” She took the forms from his hand. “Filing for disability is one of the only options we have left.”

“I don’t want to file for disability, damn it.”

“Don’t swear at me. I’m not the problem here.”

“And I am?”

Eileen slammed the forms down on the desk. “No, you exasperating man. The fact that you’re sick and they can’t find an answer is the problem. All we can do is make the best of a bad situation.”

They stared at each other for several seconds. Jamie and Eileen did not fight often, but like any married couple, they had their moments. Finally, Jamie sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then he put his hand over Eileen’s. “I’m sorry, my love. I truly am. You’re right, of course. We don’t have a choice, but these forms—there are so damned many of them. Fill in this, attach that, get a notarized statement from each of your physicians, your pharmacists, your family, your neighbors, everyone you feckin’ know.”

Eileen chuckled. “It’s bad, love, but not quite that bad. Nor do I think we have to do this alone.” She took both of Jamie’s hands in hers. “I was talking to Roxanne yesterday about our situation.”

“You told her about our finances?”

“Peace, man. Of course I didn’t tell her any specifics, but Jamie Griffin, if you think it’s a state secret that you’re sick and we’re in a bad way, I’ve got some very disappointing news for you, my dear.” When Jamie had the good grace to be abashed, she continued. “Roxanne talked with Bill, and he has a suggestion.” Bill Murphy was an attorney who lived next door with his wife and two children. Their eldest, Jennifer, was the same age as Caitlin, and the two girls were close friends. Consequently, Eileen and Roxanne had become close over the years, as had Jamie and Bill. “Bill said to tell you that there are attorneys who will take cases like this on a contingency basis.”

“A contingency basis?” Jamie asked. “Meaning we don’t pay anything up front?”

“Correct, and if they don’t win, we don’t pay the attorney anything at all.”

“And if we do win?”

“Then we pay the attorney a percentage of whatever disability benefits you receive.”

“How much of a percentage?”

“Anywhere from a quarter to a third of the benefits they obtain for us.”

“Are you feckin’ serious?” Jamie shook his head. “No way. I’m not going to give up that much money to some shyster.”

Eileen slapped her hand down on the forms again. “So you’ll fill these out then? You’ll make arrangements with the doctors, the insurance companies, the pharmacy, everyone required to fill out these forms in order to file for disability benefits? Can you then also deal with the legal tangle of requirements the disability insurance company will throw in your face once you do file these forms?”

Jamie sat in silence for several minutes. Eileen waited him out. She knew they had reached a point where she could no longer prod him. He would have to take the final step himself. Finally, Jamie exhaled loudly. “No, of course not. We both know I couldn’t have done that even when I wasn’t sick.”

Eileen put her hand on his cheek and raised his face. “I know that, sweetheart. I know. That’s why I insisted that we sit down and hash this out. We can’t afford to wait and see what happens any longer. It would be different if any of the doctors had an answer or even an idea. We might be able to buy time once they started working on curing you, but they have nothing, and it leaves us with no choice. If we file for disability and get it, then they finally figure out what’s wrong with you in six months or a year, you could go back to work. I’m sure the insurance company would be perfectly happy to stop paying benefits. Two-thirds of something is better than one hundred percent of nothing.”

Jamie smiled weakly. “You’re right. As always, you’re right.”

Eileen smiled back. “I’m not always right, you big idjit. I’m just never wrong, even when I am.”

They both laughed and hugged each other. Then Jamie nodded. “Alright then. I’ll call Bill and get some names of disability attorneys.”

Jamie watched as Eileen got up and walked out of the room. He picked up the phone to call his friend, but paused before punching any buttons. It’s all coming true, he thought bitterly. Every feckin’ thing from my nightmare. My life is coming apart at the seams and there’s not a thing I can do about it. Jamie entered Murphy’s phone number and waited for an answer.

* * * *

Riona Griffin let herself out of the house early on a cool, crisp October Saturday morning. She was going to a neighborhood clean-up project sponsored by her teen group, Sheret. Normally, she would have bounced into her parents’ room and insisted that someone get up and drive her to her meeting place. However, things were far from normal in their household.

Parents often think that children are unaware of adult problems. Nothing could be further from the truth. While children sometimes missed minor things, they were, by nature, curious, and even minor events rarely escaped their attention. While Riona and Caitlin did not get along well, they were still sisters, and they were both worried about their father and the situation in which the family had found itself. Consequently, they had been walking on eggshells, and by unspoken mutual assent, they also put aside their own sororal squabbles in the face of the more serious problems facing their family.

Riona was meeting Peter Franklin, a neighborhood boy Riona’s age. Even though he attended BC High (an all-boy school) and Riona attended Elizabeth Seton (an all-girl academy), the fact that they only lived three houses apart on their street helped to offset the fact that they attended different schools. Peter’s mom, Angela, was one of her mom’s best friends, so Peter and Riona had grown up playing together. They had begun drifting apart until they both found themselves participating in Sheret. They were not as close as they once were, but still comfortable enough to agree to ride together on the T to their meeting place.

When she reached his house, Riona saw that Peter was waiting on his front porch. Tall for his age, about six feet, Peter was slender and dark skinned. While there were not a large number of African-Americans in their section of Dorchester, they weren’t an oddity either. Peter’s mom, Angela, was Cape Verdean, but very dark skinned.

“Hey,” she said in a non-committal greeting.

“‘Sup?” Peter replied.

“Same old. How about you?”

Peter shook his head. “Just trying to keep my head above water at school.”

They walked in silence for a while, then he asked, “How’s your dad, Ri?”

Riona sighed. “The same—still the same.”

“Bummer. Everything okay in your house?”

After a few moments, she said, “It’s tense, but we’re getting by.”

“Sorry, Ri,” Peter said. “I really am.”

“I know,” Riona replied. “Let’s do our thing today and let me get my mind off it.”

“Sure.”

They walked, and then rode in silence to their meeting place, a park not too far north of the JFK/UMass T stop. It wasn’t the greatest section of town, but during the daytime, it was no big deal for two people to walk. They reached the park without incident and split up without another word to join their respective groups of friends. It wasn’t like they were ashamed to be seen with each other, they just moved in different circles.

Riona bounded to greet her friend, Kelly O’Toole. Like Riona, Kelly was a musician and a basketball player. “Hey, Skins.” she said gaily. Kelly played the drums.

Kelly was about Riona’s height, and the two girls looked a lot alike. In fact, they sometimes convinced unsuspecting teachers that they were sisters. “Hey, Windbag.” Since, like her mother, Riona played clarinet, Kelly called her windbag, a wordplay of woodwind.

Sylvia Turner, a middle-aged woman who reminded Riona of a school librarian was the Sheret group leader. She handed them litterbags, gloves and litter sticks. “Here you go, ladies,” she said far too cheerfully. “Let’s go have some fun, shall we?”

As the woman left to torment other volunteers, Riona glared at her while putting on her gloves. “I may be cheerful in the morning, but she’s just putting on an act.”

“I know, right?” agreed Kelly. The two girls slung the litterbags over their shoulders and walked off together into the park. Their group had volunteered to clean up the park as one of their community service projects. Kelly made a face as they approached a pile of garbage. “Some people are such pigs, I swear.” She stabbed a moldy, half-eaten sandwich with the litter stick and placed it carefully in her bag.

Despite the gross nature of much of what they collected, the work went quickly. The girls had several classes together as well as band and basketball, so they chatted as they worked. Just after lunchtime, Ms. Turner blew a loud whistle, calling them back to a large black and white van parked near the center of the park. They gathered to dump their trash into central containers and to get some lunch—soda, sandwiches, and chips provided by Sheret. The day had warmed up and it was pleasant sitting on the grass in the sunshine, eating and relaxing.

They had finished their lunch and were turning in their supplies. The park was large, but with the dozen or so kids involved in the project, it had not taken too long to police it. Riona and Kelly chatted a little while longer as the group dispersed. Peter Franklin drifted toward the girls as his friends took off in their own directions. Then, Riona heard her name, “Riona.”

“Oh, wonderful,” she muttered under her breath to Peter. It was Ms. Turner.

“Riona. Come over here please. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Just shoot me now,” Riona whispered, but turned and displayed a bright smile as she walked to the group leader, beside the van. There was a short, slender man with dark hair and a beard standing and talking with Ms. Turner. Riona didn’t recall having seen him around before.

“Riona,” said Sylvia Turner. “Riona, you may not be aware of this, but Sheret actually belongs to a much larger group.”

“Really?” Riona tried to make it sound like she was interested.

“Yes, it’s a very worthwhile group, and I’d like you to meet the head of that group.” Ms. Turner’s face lit up oddly, as if she felt like she were in the presence of some celebrity. “Riona, this is Kohen ibn Ezra, the head of the Disciples of Endor. Sheret is one of their many outreach groups.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” mumbled Riona, shaking hands with the man.

ibn Ezra gazed at her frankly, in a way that made Riona uncomfortable. “It is I who am pleased to meet you, Ms. Griffin,” he replied, holding her hand just a moment too long for Riona’s liking.

“I was telling Kohen ibn Ezra about what a wonderful, hard-working volunteer you are.”

“No big deal,” Riona demurred.

“Oh, but it is a big deal, Ms. Griffin,” protested ibn Ezra. “We find so many young people unwilling to spend their time in service to others. Ms. Turner has mentioned you to me as someone who might be willing to assume additional responsibilities within Sheret.”

“Additional responsibilities?” Riona asked warily.

“Nothing too arduous, I can assure you,” ibn Ezra said with a laugh that sounded even more fake than Ms. Turner’s. “As you know, we have team leaders within Sheret, and Ms. Turner has put you forward as someone suited to filling such a role.”

“Really?” Riona couldn’t stop herself from blurting out the word, disbelief and all.

“Don’t act so surprised, Riona,” scolded Sylvia Turner in a light-hearted tone. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short. You’re a valuable asset to us, and I can’t think of anyone more qualified for the position than you.”

Riona struggled for the right words. “Well, I’m honored, but I’ll have to check with my parents first. They don’t like me making commitments without their permission.”

“As it should be. I understand completely,” said ibn Ezra. “I don’t think it will require a great deal more of your time—it will just be some additional responsibilities when you work with us.”

“Okay, well, like I said, let me talk it over with my folks.”

“No problem. Just let Ms. Turner know what you decide. It was nice meeting you, Ms. Griffin.” To Riona’s relief, he didn’t try to shake hands again. She turned and walked away with Peter.

Once they had left, Achan ibn Ezra turned to Sylvia Turner. “She is the daughter of Jamie Griffin, the police detective?”

Sylvia Turner’s face lit up with surprise. “Why, yes. Do you know Detective Griffin?”

ibn Ezra smiled coldly, but Sylvia Turner didn’t notice. “Only in passing. I’m sure he doesn’t even recall meeting me,” ibn Ezra lied smoothly, “but I am pleased to meet his daughter. Keep me posted on her progress—she seems to have a great deal of promise.” He turned and walked away, pleased to be able to tell the Qedesh that he had access to one of the troublesome detective’s daughters. I would imagine this will be a most excellent pressure point, he thought smugly. Most excellent.