"Death Comes To FINAL VINYL"
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dochermes"Death Comes To FINAL VINYL"
1/13/2010
I.
It was not expected to get above ten degrees that day, and the waist-high snow by the curbs was frozen hard as rock. Bane hurried a little faster than usual along Third Avenue to the four-story yellow-brick building which housed his office. He had not been there in more than a week. The double glass doors hissed open automatically as he entered the lobby. To his right, he could see that the waiting room to EMERGENCY ONE walk-in clinic was crowded, probably people with the first stages of pneumonia or who had hurt themselves shoveling show. It had been a rough winter, even he had noticed. Bane got the bundle from his box in the wall of mail receptacles to the left and starting thumbing through it. Nothing interesting. He sighed almost inaudibly, the hectic glory days of the Midnight War seemed to be over.
Of course, he thought, that was a lull of his own making. For years, he had been referring big cases involving Midnight War to the KDF. Sable and her team had done well, he had to admit they were as capable as his own founding team had been so long ago. Recently, he had been handling only what caught his interest and seemed novel, not more than one assignment a month of so. He toyed with retiring once and for all, but deep down he knew he was still too compulsive and restless to just laze about vacation spots the rest of his life.
At fifty-three, Jeremy Bane was only beginning to show any signs of age. There were a few white strands in the full head of black hair, faint wrinkles at the corners of the grey eyes and at the edges of the thin-lipped mouth. But he still was lean and energetic, still striding briskly across the lobby as if driven by internal urgency. Under the long topcoat, he still wore the trademark uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Bane went past the stairs that led up to the second floor and down the short hallway where a plain wooden door stood with its bronze plaque, DIRE WOLF AGENCY- APPOINTMENTS ONLY. He felt little enthusiasm as he unlocked that door, crossed the tiny waiting room and entered his office.
The place was freezing. The Dire Wolf turned up the thermostat to 70, hung his coat on the hook inside the door and dropped the bundle of mail on his desk. He had spent the last three days in Hong Kong, visiting the sifu who had taught him some Black Mantis style years earlier. Some sightseeing, experimenting with different restaurants, making a call on the family of Tang Ming to reassure them she was well and happy in Chujir. Coming back from that steamy heat to the arctic conditions of Manhattan had been a jolt.
Bane went around behind his desk, dropped into the swivel chair and regarded the mail with no interest at all. What was wrong with him today? Normally he tore through it at once, writing out checks and getting everything done. The light on his office phone showed he had messages but he hardly cared. Grudgingly, he started 'play' and listened to the voices. A reminder from his counsel Taylor Worth that he had a court date at the end of the month about the Lindhorst case. Bleak chiming in to say things were quiet, it was too cold for even monsters or maniacs to be out on the street. Sheng announcing he had succeeding in getting his PI license and was shopping for a good office location in Chinatown. A businessman asking for a meeting to discuss employees he suspected of doing drugs on the premises. Nothing urgent.
The Dire Wolf leaned back and scowled at his desk. Maybe he was finally getting old. He had been fighting the Midnight War all his life, after all. Maybe now was when he should close the Agency and stay at Tel Shai with Cindy most of the time. Why not?
The doorbell rang and he was up out of his swivel chair as if it had given him an electric shock. Despite himself, Bane smiled slightly at his automatic response. In the waiting room, he glanced up at the small monitor up in the corner. A woman, maybe early fifties, quite handsome in an imposing way. Light brown hair, thin, maybe one hundred pounds at five feet three. Good quality coat, slacks, shoes. Wool gloves and a wool scarf.
Automatically, he read her body language. He could spot no clues of aggression, this really was an unknown woman pressing his bell again with no intention of attacking him. The monitor showed no one else in the short hallway. Bane opened the door and said, "Can I help you?"
"Jeremy? Don't you remember me?" came the husky voice.
He looked at the face, past the softened jawline, the slightly watery blue eyes, and he saw her as she once had been. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "Kate Hoffstater. I just wasn't expecting you. Come in."
She walked past him steadily enough, confident as only wealth imbues. "At least you haven't changed, Jeremy. I thought for a moment you must be your own son or something. Nice office, tasteful. I like the black leather couch under the window. May I sit there?"
"Sure," Bane said, escorting her over and bringing one of the straightbacked wooden chairs for himself. "Sorry I didn't think to take your coat.."
"Quite all right, I'll leave it on." She stared at him sadly. "Oh, I know I must look awful. It's been forever since you last saw me and I was only a child then."
"The Sanguinarians," he said as if to himself. "I remember. Vampires. They were a bad bunch. That would have been... thirty-three years ago? One of my first cases working for Mr Dred. It seems impossible so much time has slipped past."
"Yes. You saved me from them. And you wouldn't take a fee from my family, you said just to relay any weird or supernatural events we heard of to you." She sighed and leaned back, glad to be seated.
"It's a system that has worked for me," Bane replied. "But I didn't hear from you, so I suppose your lives were relatively normal."
"Yes..." she answered slowly. The woman looked up into his wary grey eyes and went on. "Eight years ago, my husband Henry was murdered. A home invasion. The police got absolutely nowhere. I've hired five private investigators and they have been absolutely useless. You're my last hope, Jeremy."
II.
Bane exhaled sharply. "Oh, Kate. Honestly, I am not a great detective. I admit it. My value is when the fighting starts. If the police and five PIs couldn't get anywhere, I can't promise I'd do any better."
The woman shook her head. "Don't say that. You have no idea what a reputation you have. The police say they routinely hand hopeless cases over to you. You HAVE to try. I've spent a fortune trying to find Henry's killer and.. I can't take much more."
"Well. At least give me some information so I can figure whether it's worth a shot. Tell me what happened to Henry."
For the next ten minutes, he listened without interrupting to a story she had obviously repeated so many times the details had become polished in detail. She had come home from shopping to find the front door open, her husband dead in the kitchen with a bullet over one ear, and a strange man running through the yard. The suspect had been short, dumpy, with curly black hair and a hooked nose. He hadn't looked back at her.
When Kate Hoffstater had finished, the Dire Wolf asked for a few clarifications and it was obvious he wasn't coming up with questions she hadn't heard many times before. Finally, he stopped and was silent for a long moment. "It doesn't sound promising. What makes you think I can get anywhere without something new to work with?"
"Because I saw the man. Yesterday. Right here in Manhattan. He didn't see me, luckily, but I got a good hard look at him. He works at a store called FINAL VINYL, they sell turntables and LPS on 66th Street."
"Okay. That's something new. I'll scout it out. 66th?"
"And Seventh Avenue. It's a dingy little shop. But Jeremy, will you be armed?"
"I usually am," he answered. "Why? He won't know me."
Kate hesitated. "Over the years, I've learned a few things about this man. His name is Racimo, but he uses different aliases. He's a psychopath. He kills almost at random, every now and then a sort of emotional pressure builds up in him and he just has to murder someone! If he gets suspicious of you..."
"Oh, I think I can take care of myself," Bane said. "I'll go take a look at this guy and get an impression. I'm not saying you're mistaken but you just got a glimpse at him eight years ago..."
"And I'm an hysterical woman!" she snapped. "Honestly. Very well," she took a checkbook from her handbag. "What's your fee for a retainer?"
The Dire Wolf started to raise a hand in dismissal but thought twice. "You're right. If you're my client, I have certain legal privileges when talking to the police. Okay. Can you swing one thousand even?"
"Surely. Expenses?"
"Just the flat fee," Bane said. "Now I can decline to answer questions that might incriminate you." He went to his desk to take out a wide red ledger. Filling in the details and folding the check inside, he brought her back a receipt. "I think you might as well go home now," he told her as he reached a hand to help her up. "Of course I'll call after I do a recon."
"Thank you, Jeremy. I hoped I could count on you. Maybe Henry can rest easier knowing his killer has been caught."
As he escorted her out to the hall, the Dire Wolf said, "Let's see what happens first."
III.
Watching from his door, he saw a trim young man in a suit and tie take Kate's elbow and guide her toward the front of the lobby. Parked in the lot outside was a dark Ford Focus. Well, nothing too suspicious about that. Maybe a son she hadn't mentioned, maybe just a family friend. Still, it looked awkward.
Unreasonably conflicted, Bane went back in and began to pace the office. As soon as he had contemplated closing up shop, a face from the past had strolled in and asked for help. He was annoyed with himself for accepting. Over the years, he had built up a respectable record of mundane crimes solved but that was not his real area of expertise. He was Midnight War. He had been born to stalk the darkness when the creatures of the night came out to prey on Humans, and at doing that he was unmatched. But right here in this city, there must be a score of PIs better at routine investigations than he ever would be.
And something in his instincts made him unhappy. Long Kumundu training told him that Kate Hoffstater had not been honest with him. It was hard to tell with some people, the subvocal tremors and tightening of hand tendons as they talked weren't as reliable but he had a strong feeling there was something important she had not shared with him. Something else to think about.
As always when in public, Bane was prepared. He wore the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes, the matched silver daggers were sheathed at his forearms, he was carrying the long-barrelled 38 Smith & Wesson and all the various gadgets and tools he had developed back in KDF days. Always the Dire Wolf. All that remained was to shrug into the topcoat and take the thin leather gloves from one of its pockets. As he left the office, Bane looked back at the untouched pile of mail on his desk and frowned, he had never left without going through it before. Well, it would keep.
Out into the cold wind again. To be honest, he barely felt it. Decades on the tagra tea diet had left his body able to adapt to extremes without discomfort. He swung left on Third Avenue and went to the IMPERIAL GARAGE on 40th Street. He switched cars every month or so, ostensibly to make it more difficult for his enemies to keep track of him but mostly as just one of the few habits that hinted at his wealth. The green and blue lights blinked steadily on the sunvisor over the steering wheel. The Trom alarms he had installed were reassuring. Bane got in, started the Toyota Matrix up and eased out heading north into minimal traffic. At 66th Street, he turned left and reached Seventh Avenue. The closest parking spot he could manage was two blocks away, but he didn't mind.
Walking along Seventh Avenue, he passed a shop that sold cameras and smartphones and electronic gear, then a place filled with luggage. Then a rather dingy little store with ornate red letters FINAL VINYL - THOSE WHO LOVE QUALITY AUDIO. The window was crammed with album covers and a line-up of old turntables. Bane studied them with no noticeable interest. He had never listened to music. For some reason it didn't sink into his awareness, although his friends had always been vaguely alarmed that he just didn't care for any sort of music at all. Cindy had said he was just too focused for his own good. Bane himself had vaguely wondered if there was something fundamentally wrong with him, that he didn't like music or watch movies and want to pet dogs or a dozen other things normal people enjoyed.
Well, at his age it was too late now. He functioned well enough the way he was. Bane opened the door, making a little bell tinkle as he did so. A young couple were in one corner of the cramped little shop, giggling over some old 1960s drug posters. Shelves were crammed with LP albums, 45s and even a row of 78s. One wall held reference books about music, biographies of artists, little knicknacks and memorabilia. None of it meant anything to him. He pretended to begin browsing around while actually scrutinizing the man behind the cash register near the door.
If the guy was Racimo, he was a white male of probable Spanish ancestry. Late fifties, maybe sixty years old exactly. Five feet nine, one hundred and ninety pounds, not in good athletic shape. Hair black, curly, bald circle at the top. Heavy beard growth, five o'clock shadow was pronounced. Almost like a snapshot, Bane's training took in a dozen details including proportions between trunk and limbs, size of head relative to trso. He even memorized the distinctive shape of the outer ear structure. It had taken years to make this automatic. One detail that caught his attention that that Racimo's eyes were wet, his eyebrows raised in the center. He looked as if he was about to cry. He was like that before Bane had entered and it made the man look unexpectedly vulnerable.
Moving around the store, listening to the young couple whisper together, Bane wondered how he should start a conversation with Racimo. Then he saw something he actually recognized. An album cover for sale by itself, three young men standing around a fourth who reclined on a couch as if dead. Yes, THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES. The most famous band of their era, Scarab. All the details of that case, the cover-up of three deaths by misdirection, came flooding back into his mind. Poor Cindy, she had been heartbroken by the whole business....
Racimo had come over to stand behind him, not too close. "Ah, that's authentic. The album itself got all scratched but the owner kept the cover propped up on a bookcase for years. Not even pinholes from being tacked up."
"I met the impersonators in 1984, with a friend of mine," Bane said quietly. "Right before they were exposed. My friend was really hurt, she worshipped Scarab."
"Who didn't?" replied Racimo lightly. "Still the most influential group ever. What a tragedy. How did you happen to meet the fakers?"
"Oh, I was asked to see why the new album was taking so long. My friend and I drove out to the studio and chatted with them. Cindy was a much bigger fan than I was, she was so smitten that I thought she was going to try to stay with them." Bane turned to smile at Racimo. "They weren't that friendly and that woman with them...!"
"Oh, HER! Listen, I'd love to hear every detail. I'm writing a book about the final days of Scarab and what it did to end classic rock. Would you mind telling me all the details?"
Bane did not hesitate. "Oh, I'd enjoy it. It seems like yesterday. My name is Jeremy," he said as he held out his hand, which the man eagerly shook.
"Racimo, Vince Racimo. Ah, I close in a couple hours. My apartment is on the third floor of this building. What do you say, I open a bottle of good wine and we chat about the fake Scarabs for a while? This is amazing coincidence to run into you like this."
The Dire Wolf shrugged casually, trying to tone down his natural intensity. "It's a big city. I bet we run into interesting people every day and never notice. Hang on a minute, I have to take this." He unclipped the Link from his belt and checked its screen. Once the Trom communications devices had been the most advanced devices on Earth, but in recent years, regular people were using Smartphones that approached the Links. Bane tapped a few buttons and put the device away. "Ah, that was nothing important. Tell you what, I'll come back at six and we can sit up all night chatting. I never get tired of telling those stories."
"Great, great, this is my lucky day!" The grief, whatever it was, had lifted from Racimo.
"I'll see you later," Bane said as he headed for the door. He was trying not to show the conflicting impressions he had picked up from this man. Out on the street again, his mind was struggling to fit everything together. Despite the cold, he walked past where his car was parked, deep in thought, then doubled back to head for his office.
III.
Once he was back behind his desk again, Bane took his laptop from where it hung in a satchel beside his desk and flipped it open. He uploaded all the information from his Link to the laptop, where it would be easier to read on the bigger screen. Settling down, he picked two of the better photos he had taken of Racimo and started the facial recognition process with everything in the databanks of the NYPD, the NSA, the CIA, INTERCEPT, the FBI, and the Mandate. Not that he was supposed to have access to any of this. He had managed to get some usable fingerprint images by casually taking a shot of the album cover that Racimo had been holding. As everything was being processed, he leaned back to think.
All his instincts told him that this man was not a professional killer. He had known quite a few hitmen in his career, and this guy had none of the essential traits. He was soft emotionally, there was no hint of the necessary coldness or self-centered traits a hired gun needed. That never went away. Kate had to be wrong. The Dire Wolf considered not going back to see the man in a little while, but on the other hand, why not? He could tell as much of the strange case of the fake Scarab as he could and what harm would it do?
Then results started showing up on the screen and he jolted back to full awareness. The identification was positive. Vincent Joseph Racimo was sixty years old, born in Key West, Florida. Most of his life was spent without anything interesting happening until 1994. He had been charged with armed robbery, but in a plea deal, the charges were dropped in exchange for community service. The mitigating factor had been that he had been pressured into the attempted robbery to help an impoverished girlfriend. Since then, he had lived quietly again, working a number of mundane jobs.
So a bit of violence was not beyond possibility with Racimo. That opened things up again. Bane checked the date that Henry Hoffstater had been killed, and found that Racimo was already living in the same apartment he occupied now, with a girlfriend who had since moved away. It would be a thirty-minute ride from there to where the Hoffstaters lived down in Tribeca. The murder had taken place at eleven at night, and certainly no one in the apartment building would remember whether or not Racimo had left or come back late that night eight years ago.
And one week after the murder, Vince Racimo had moved back to Florida for three years. He had stayed with relatives, working two jobs and staying discreet. When he had money put aside, he come back to Manhattan and ended up working at FINAL VINYL. A year earlier, he had bought the store when the former owner retired due to health problems.
Bane closed the laptop and started walking around the office. When Hoffstater had been killed at home, the police had made no arrests and had not even any suspects. No one made any connection between the death and Racimo of course, so no one had even thought it suspicious that the man had moved away so soon after the murder. People moved to and from the city daily. The Dire Wolf found himself circling the room briskly, picking up old newspapers off the bookcase and putting them down again, pulling the curtains aside to gave at frozen pedestrians on Third Avenue, going past his desk again. The lassitude he had felt earlier that day had vanished, he felt burning with nervous energy.
Reluctantly, he phoned Kate and told him what he had learned and she then insisted on returning to his office. As he waited for her, he called the deli across the street and ordered a twelve-inch ham and cheese sub with mustard and pickle chips, a big bottle of seltzer and a bag of pretzels. It came promptly, he tipped the delivery man whom he had come to recognize, and dug in. He had quite finished when the doorbell rang. Throwing the wrappers in a wastepaper basket, Bane wiped his mouth and went to let Kate Hoffstater in. She went directly to drop down on the couch and said, "Well?"
After he related his visit to FINAL VINYL, Bane stood in front of her. "I've done a little research on this man. You said he's a known psychopath who has the urge to kill at intervals. He's never been arrested, never even questioned in anything like that. What's your source on that?"
"The private eyes I've hired," she said promptly. "Two of them told me he's known as a serial killer but a combination of luck and cunning have kept him out of the electric chair." She turned those angry blue eyes up at him. "They couldn't get anything conclusive on him either! Private eyes are useless, I am sure you'll do better!"
He made a skeptical noise. "I did learn Racimo moved to Florida a week after Henry's death and only came back to Manhattan a year or so again. That's interesting. I'm going to visit him in a little while. He has an apartment right above the record store." Bane raised an eyebrow as if surprised at himself. "We're going to talk about Scarab."
"The Eighties band?" she demanded. "Why the hell.. oh, never mind. As long as you get some reason to prosecute him. I'm going with you, of course. I'll wait outside in case he confesses. I want to see the police take him away."
"As long as you stay out of sight." Bane regarded her thoughtfully. "Kate, when I knew you, you were a teenager and traumatized by the Sanguinarians. Have you ever had any other supernatural events since then?"
"Who, me? No. Once was enough. Except for that time with those creatures and the night my Henry was murdered, I've led a decent peaceful life." She jumped to her feet and took him by the sleeve. "Come on. I'm counting on you to get to the truth, Jeremy."
"That's why I try to do," Bane said as he headed for the door with her, grabbing his topcoat along the way.
IV.
Racimo's apartment was small, warm and cozy. Like the store a few floors below them, it was packed with albums as well as CDs, books and magazines and interesting souvenirs. Evidently Racimo had spent as much time going to concerts as he could when young and had gotten a lot of flyers and posters signed by the artists. They ended up sitting on the rug like teenagers, drinking white wine while Racimo played one bootleg tape of Scarab after another. Racimo got nearly all the wine, Bane barely sipped his glass.
Surprising himself again, Jeremy Bane found he was relaxing and taking in anecdotes about bands he had never heard of. When he was asked to describe his encounter with the fake Scarabs, he did not allow a tape recorder to used but okayed Racimo taking notes. Of course, Bane only told a small fraction of what had happened on that case so long ago. He did not mention the flight to England in the stealth copter CORBY to corner the imposters and he described himself only as a private investigator. Racimo had given him a quizzical glance at that, but had said something.
Eventually, the conversation wound down. The second bottle of wine was more than half empty when Racimo leaned forward and asked quietly, "Jeremy. Tell me the truth. It wasn't just chance that brought you to my shop today. Was it?"
"No, Vince."
"I didn't want to think so. It's so hard to make friends in this city. I was hoping I had met someone I could hang out with. But when you said you were a private eye..."
"I still am, Vince." Bane kept his voice mild. "I was asked to identify you. But to be honest, I've enjoyed this visit and I'm not social by nature."
"Well, thanks for that. So what's the deal? Is this about that armed robbery thing? That was ages ago and I did my service, it's closed."
"No. See if this date means anything to you. December 3, 2007."
Even without Bane's training at reading minute changes in body language, Racimo gave himself away. He pushed himself to his feet clumsily as Bane rose at the same time, still facing him.
"Who sent you here?" Racimo demanded as the door to his apartment opened. Both men swung around to see Kate Hoffstater standing there with her right hand inside a huge handbag.
"He knows what you did," she hissed.
Racimo broke out in heavy sweat so suddenly it was startling. Maybe the wine had some influence on that. "I.. Jeremy, what you don't know is that it was her idea. She got me to do it. You should have seen her ten years ago. She used sex and lots of it, I was infatuated. She promised we would be together forever!"
"Oh come on," Kate scoffed. "Who is going to believe that?"
Bane raised a hand to silence her. "And then what happened, Vince?"
"After.. afterwards, she wouldn't even meet me. It was all for the life insurance and so she could have boys on the side. She gave me money to move away and to never come back. I had never felt so betrayed. But eventually I came back hoping I might run into her somehow." He turned pleading eyes on the woman in the doorway. "Katie..."
"Oh, shut up," she snapped. Kate Hoffstater raised her hand with a brand new Glock 18 held steady in it. "You're not going to lie your way out of this."
The Dire Wolf was not worried for himself. The silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes would protect him against much heavier firearms than that Glock, but he didn't want any gunplay in any case. "Vince, one thing puzzles me. If Kate coerced you into killing her husband, and if you've gotten away with it all these years, why would she want to find you? Why hire detectives? Why hire me?"
Racimo was indeed a little drunk, he yelled promptly, "Because she was afraid I would talk! She used to nag me about how she was afraid someday I would let too much slip. Why do you think she brought a gun with her? She intends to make sure I stay quiet."
"Whoa, now everyone stay calm. Kate, I want you to lower that gun now." Bane turned to stand facing her, open hands held up palms down in a calming gesture.
"She's going to shoot me!" Racimo screamed and made a dive to get far to one side.
"He's going for a gun!" Kate screamed at almost the same time and fired twice. But something she never expected happened. Jeremy Bane had moved into her path, and the bullets hit the unyielding Trom armor and the hard-toned pectoral muscles under it. One bullet glanced aside to crash into a window but the second bullet hit at just the right direct angle to rebound back and punch home in Kate's chest.
"Oh..." she whispered, more in disbelief than anything else. Bane had lunged to yank the gun out of her hand. He caught her and lowered her to the floor. He was amazed himself, all the times he had seen shootouts and he had never witnessed anyone being hit by their own ricochet.
"I'll call 911!" Racimo yelled, getting up from the floor.
"She's already dead. Neat impact right in the heart." Bane let her sag out on the floor and turned back to Racimo. "I'm calling Lt Montez of Homicide. He's going to love this little twist. You realize, Vince, I'm going to have to testify what I heard you and Kate say tonight. You can deny it under oath if you like. It's all going to depend on the lawyers and the juries."
Racimo fell clumsily into an armchair. "I guess.. I guess I shouldn't say anything until I get a lawyer."
"That's up to you," Bane told him. "I'm not arresting you, I'm just holding you here until NYPD arrives. Do you have a gun?"
"Huh? Oh yeah, a 32 revolver. In my bedroom."
"She knew you well enough to count on that. At some point she was going to plant it near you and claim you were going for it." Bane shook his head and took out his Link to patch into the phone system.
"I thought she was so warm and caring...." Racimo muttered.
As he dialed police headquarters, Bane suddenly felt weary and sick of it all. "Well, she used you to get eight years of wealth and young boytoys. I hope she thought it was worth it."
3/11/2015
1/13/2010
I.
It was not expected to get above ten degrees that day, and the waist-high snow by the curbs was frozen hard as rock. Bane hurried a little faster than usual along Third Avenue to the four-story yellow-brick building which housed his office. He had not been there in more than a week. The double glass doors hissed open automatically as he entered the lobby. To his right, he could see that the waiting room to EMERGENCY ONE walk-in clinic was crowded, probably people with the first stages of pneumonia or who had hurt themselves shoveling show. It had been a rough winter, even he had noticed. Bane got the bundle from his box in the wall of mail receptacles to the left and starting thumbing through it. Nothing interesting. He sighed almost inaudibly, the hectic glory days of the Midnight War seemed to be over.
Of course, he thought, that was a lull of his own making. For years, he had been referring big cases involving Midnight War to the KDF. Sable and her team had done well, he had to admit they were as capable as his own founding team had been so long ago. Recently, he had been handling only what caught his interest and seemed novel, not more than one assignment a month of so. He toyed with retiring once and for all, but deep down he knew he was still too compulsive and restless to just laze about vacation spots the rest of his life.
At fifty-three, Jeremy Bane was only beginning to show any signs of age. There were a few white strands in the full head of black hair, faint wrinkles at the corners of the grey eyes and at the edges of the thin-lipped mouth. But he still was lean and energetic, still striding briskly across the lobby as if driven by internal urgency. Under the long topcoat, he still wore the trademark uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Bane went past the stairs that led up to the second floor and down the short hallway where a plain wooden door stood with its bronze plaque, DIRE WOLF AGENCY- APPOINTMENTS ONLY. He felt little enthusiasm as he unlocked that door, crossed the tiny waiting room and entered his office.
The place was freezing. The Dire Wolf turned up the thermostat to 70, hung his coat on the hook inside the door and dropped the bundle of mail on his desk. He had spent the last three days in Hong Kong, visiting the sifu who had taught him some Black Mantis style years earlier. Some sightseeing, experimenting with different restaurants, making a call on the family of Tang Ming to reassure them she was well and happy in Chujir. Coming back from that steamy heat to the arctic conditions of Manhattan had been a jolt.
Bane went around behind his desk, dropped into the swivel chair and regarded the mail with no interest at all. What was wrong with him today? Normally he tore through it at once, writing out checks and getting everything done. The light on his office phone showed he had messages but he hardly cared. Grudgingly, he started 'play' and listened to the voices. A reminder from his counsel Taylor Worth that he had a court date at the end of the month about the Lindhorst case. Bleak chiming in to say things were quiet, it was too cold for even monsters or maniacs to be out on the street. Sheng announcing he had succeeding in getting his PI license and was shopping for a good office location in Chinatown. A businessman asking for a meeting to discuss employees he suspected of doing drugs on the premises. Nothing urgent.
The Dire Wolf leaned back and scowled at his desk. Maybe he was finally getting old. He had been fighting the Midnight War all his life, after all. Maybe now was when he should close the Agency and stay at Tel Shai with Cindy most of the time. Why not?
The doorbell rang and he was up out of his swivel chair as if it had given him an electric shock. Despite himself, Bane smiled slightly at his automatic response. In the waiting room, he glanced up at the small monitor up in the corner. A woman, maybe early fifties, quite handsome in an imposing way. Light brown hair, thin, maybe one hundred pounds at five feet three. Good quality coat, slacks, shoes. Wool gloves and a wool scarf.
Automatically, he read her body language. He could spot no clues of aggression, this really was an unknown woman pressing his bell again with no intention of attacking him. The monitor showed no one else in the short hallway. Bane opened the door and said, "Can I help you?"
"Jeremy? Don't you remember me?" came the husky voice.
He looked at the face, past the softened jawline, the slightly watery blue eyes, and he saw her as she once had been. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "Kate Hoffstater. I just wasn't expecting you. Come in."
She walked past him steadily enough, confident as only wealth imbues. "At least you haven't changed, Jeremy. I thought for a moment you must be your own son or something. Nice office, tasteful. I like the black leather couch under the window. May I sit there?"
"Sure," Bane said, escorting her over and bringing one of the straightbacked wooden chairs for himself. "Sorry I didn't think to take your coat.."
"Quite all right, I'll leave it on." She stared at him sadly. "Oh, I know I must look awful. It's been forever since you last saw me and I was only a child then."
"The Sanguinarians," he said as if to himself. "I remember. Vampires. They were a bad bunch. That would have been... thirty-three years ago? One of my first cases working for Mr Dred. It seems impossible so much time has slipped past."
"Yes. You saved me from them. And you wouldn't take a fee from my family, you said just to relay any weird or supernatural events we heard of to you." She sighed and leaned back, glad to be seated.
"It's a system that has worked for me," Bane replied. "But I didn't hear from you, so I suppose your lives were relatively normal."
"Yes..." she answered slowly. The woman looked up into his wary grey eyes and went on. "Eight years ago, my husband Henry was murdered. A home invasion. The police got absolutely nowhere. I've hired five private investigators and they have been absolutely useless. You're my last hope, Jeremy."
II.
Bane exhaled sharply. "Oh, Kate. Honestly, I am not a great detective. I admit it. My value is when the fighting starts. If the police and five PIs couldn't get anywhere, I can't promise I'd do any better."
The woman shook her head. "Don't say that. You have no idea what a reputation you have. The police say they routinely hand hopeless cases over to you. You HAVE to try. I've spent a fortune trying to find Henry's killer and.. I can't take much more."
"Well. At least give me some information so I can figure whether it's worth a shot. Tell me what happened to Henry."
For the next ten minutes, he listened without interrupting to a story she had obviously repeated so many times the details had become polished in detail. She had come home from shopping to find the front door open, her husband dead in the kitchen with a bullet over one ear, and a strange man running through the yard. The suspect had been short, dumpy, with curly black hair and a hooked nose. He hadn't looked back at her.
When Kate Hoffstater had finished, the Dire Wolf asked for a few clarifications and it was obvious he wasn't coming up with questions she hadn't heard many times before. Finally, he stopped and was silent for a long moment. "It doesn't sound promising. What makes you think I can get anywhere without something new to work with?"
"Because I saw the man. Yesterday. Right here in Manhattan. He didn't see me, luckily, but I got a good hard look at him. He works at a store called FINAL VINYL, they sell turntables and LPS on 66th Street."
"Okay. That's something new. I'll scout it out. 66th?"
"And Seventh Avenue. It's a dingy little shop. But Jeremy, will you be armed?"
"I usually am," he answered. "Why? He won't know me."
Kate hesitated. "Over the years, I've learned a few things about this man. His name is Racimo, but he uses different aliases. He's a psychopath. He kills almost at random, every now and then a sort of emotional pressure builds up in him and he just has to murder someone! If he gets suspicious of you..."
"Oh, I think I can take care of myself," Bane said. "I'll go take a look at this guy and get an impression. I'm not saying you're mistaken but you just got a glimpse at him eight years ago..."
"And I'm an hysterical woman!" she snapped. "Honestly. Very well," she took a checkbook from her handbag. "What's your fee for a retainer?"
The Dire Wolf started to raise a hand in dismissal but thought twice. "You're right. If you're my client, I have certain legal privileges when talking to the police. Okay. Can you swing one thousand even?"
"Surely. Expenses?"
"Just the flat fee," Bane said. "Now I can decline to answer questions that might incriminate you." He went to his desk to take out a wide red ledger. Filling in the details and folding the check inside, he brought her back a receipt. "I think you might as well go home now," he told her as he reached a hand to help her up. "Of course I'll call after I do a recon."
"Thank you, Jeremy. I hoped I could count on you. Maybe Henry can rest easier knowing his killer has been caught."
As he escorted her out to the hall, the Dire Wolf said, "Let's see what happens first."
III.
Watching from his door, he saw a trim young man in a suit and tie take Kate's elbow and guide her toward the front of the lobby. Parked in the lot outside was a dark Ford Focus. Well, nothing too suspicious about that. Maybe a son she hadn't mentioned, maybe just a family friend. Still, it looked awkward.
Unreasonably conflicted, Bane went back in and began to pace the office. As soon as he had contemplated closing up shop, a face from the past had strolled in and asked for help. He was annoyed with himself for accepting. Over the years, he had built up a respectable record of mundane crimes solved but that was not his real area of expertise. He was Midnight War. He had been born to stalk the darkness when the creatures of the night came out to prey on Humans, and at doing that he was unmatched. But right here in this city, there must be a score of PIs better at routine investigations than he ever would be.
And something in his instincts made him unhappy. Long Kumundu training told him that Kate Hoffstater had not been honest with him. It was hard to tell with some people, the subvocal tremors and tightening of hand tendons as they talked weren't as reliable but he had a strong feeling there was something important she had not shared with him. Something else to think about.
As always when in public, Bane was prepared. He wore the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes, the matched silver daggers were sheathed at his forearms, he was carrying the long-barrelled 38 Smith & Wesson and all the various gadgets and tools he had developed back in KDF days. Always the Dire Wolf. All that remained was to shrug into the topcoat and take the thin leather gloves from one of its pockets. As he left the office, Bane looked back at the untouched pile of mail on his desk and frowned, he had never left without going through it before. Well, it would keep.
Out into the cold wind again. To be honest, he barely felt it. Decades on the tagra tea diet had left his body able to adapt to extremes without discomfort. He swung left on Third Avenue and went to the IMPERIAL GARAGE on 40th Street. He switched cars every month or so, ostensibly to make it more difficult for his enemies to keep track of him but mostly as just one of the few habits that hinted at his wealth. The green and blue lights blinked steadily on the sunvisor over the steering wheel. The Trom alarms he had installed were reassuring. Bane got in, started the Toyota Matrix up and eased out heading north into minimal traffic. At 66th Street, he turned left and reached Seventh Avenue. The closest parking spot he could manage was two blocks away, but he didn't mind.
Walking along Seventh Avenue, he passed a shop that sold cameras and smartphones and electronic gear, then a place filled with luggage. Then a rather dingy little store with ornate red letters FINAL VINYL - THOSE WHO LOVE QUALITY AUDIO. The window was crammed with album covers and a line-up of old turntables. Bane studied them with no noticeable interest. He had never listened to music. For some reason it didn't sink into his awareness, although his friends had always been vaguely alarmed that he just didn't care for any sort of music at all. Cindy had said he was just too focused for his own good. Bane himself had vaguely wondered if there was something fundamentally wrong with him, that he didn't like music or watch movies and want to pet dogs or a dozen other things normal people enjoyed.
Well, at his age it was too late now. He functioned well enough the way he was. Bane opened the door, making a little bell tinkle as he did so. A young couple were in one corner of the cramped little shop, giggling over some old 1960s drug posters. Shelves were crammed with LP albums, 45s and even a row of 78s. One wall held reference books about music, biographies of artists, little knicknacks and memorabilia. None of it meant anything to him. He pretended to begin browsing around while actually scrutinizing the man behind the cash register near the door.
If the guy was Racimo, he was a white male of probable Spanish ancestry. Late fifties, maybe sixty years old exactly. Five feet nine, one hundred and ninety pounds, not in good athletic shape. Hair black, curly, bald circle at the top. Heavy beard growth, five o'clock shadow was pronounced. Almost like a snapshot, Bane's training took in a dozen details including proportions between trunk and limbs, size of head relative to trso. He even memorized the distinctive shape of the outer ear structure. It had taken years to make this automatic. One detail that caught his attention that that Racimo's eyes were wet, his eyebrows raised in the center. He looked as if he was about to cry. He was like that before Bane had entered and it made the man look unexpectedly vulnerable.
Moving around the store, listening to the young couple whisper together, Bane wondered how he should start a conversation with Racimo. Then he saw something he actually recognized. An album cover for sale by itself, three young men standing around a fourth who reclined on a couch as if dead. Yes, THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES. The most famous band of their era, Scarab. All the details of that case, the cover-up of three deaths by misdirection, came flooding back into his mind. Poor Cindy, she had been heartbroken by the whole business....
Racimo had come over to stand behind him, not too close. "Ah, that's authentic. The album itself got all scratched but the owner kept the cover propped up on a bookcase for years. Not even pinholes from being tacked up."
"I met the impersonators in 1984, with a friend of mine," Bane said quietly. "Right before they were exposed. My friend was really hurt, she worshipped Scarab."
"Who didn't?" replied Racimo lightly. "Still the most influential group ever. What a tragedy. How did you happen to meet the fakers?"
"Oh, I was asked to see why the new album was taking so long. My friend and I drove out to the studio and chatted with them. Cindy was a much bigger fan than I was, she was so smitten that I thought she was going to try to stay with them." Bane turned to smile at Racimo. "They weren't that friendly and that woman with them...!"
"Oh, HER! Listen, I'd love to hear every detail. I'm writing a book about the final days of Scarab and what it did to end classic rock. Would you mind telling me all the details?"
Bane did not hesitate. "Oh, I'd enjoy it. It seems like yesterday. My name is Jeremy," he said as he held out his hand, which the man eagerly shook.
"Racimo, Vince Racimo. Ah, I close in a couple hours. My apartment is on the third floor of this building. What do you say, I open a bottle of good wine and we chat about the fake Scarabs for a while? This is amazing coincidence to run into you like this."
The Dire Wolf shrugged casually, trying to tone down his natural intensity. "It's a big city. I bet we run into interesting people every day and never notice. Hang on a minute, I have to take this." He unclipped the Link from his belt and checked its screen. Once the Trom communications devices had been the most advanced devices on Earth, but in recent years, regular people were using Smartphones that approached the Links. Bane tapped a few buttons and put the device away. "Ah, that was nothing important. Tell you what, I'll come back at six and we can sit up all night chatting. I never get tired of telling those stories."
"Great, great, this is my lucky day!" The grief, whatever it was, had lifted from Racimo.
"I'll see you later," Bane said as he headed for the door. He was trying not to show the conflicting impressions he had picked up from this man. Out on the street again, his mind was struggling to fit everything together. Despite the cold, he walked past where his car was parked, deep in thought, then doubled back to head for his office.
III.
Once he was back behind his desk again, Bane took his laptop from where it hung in a satchel beside his desk and flipped it open. He uploaded all the information from his Link to the laptop, where it would be easier to read on the bigger screen. Settling down, he picked two of the better photos he had taken of Racimo and started the facial recognition process with everything in the databanks of the NYPD, the NSA, the CIA, INTERCEPT, the FBI, and the Mandate. Not that he was supposed to have access to any of this. He had managed to get some usable fingerprint images by casually taking a shot of the album cover that Racimo had been holding. As everything was being processed, he leaned back to think.
All his instincts told him that this man was not a professional killer. He had known quite a few hitmen in his career, and this guy had none of the essential traits. He was soft emotionally, there was no hint of the necessary coldness or self-centered traits a hired gun needed. That never went away. Kate had to be wrong. The Dire Wolf considered not going back to see the man in a little while, but on the other hand, why not? He could tell as much of the strange case of the fake Scarab as he could and what harm would it do?
Then results started showing up on the screen and he jolted back to full awareness. The identification was positive. Vincent Joseph Racimo was sixty years old, born in Key West, Florida. Most of his life was spent without anything interesting happening until 1994. He had been charged with armed robbery, but in a plea deal, the charges were dropped in exchange for community service. The mitigating factor had been that he had been pressured into the attempted robbery to help an impoverished girlfriend. Since then, he had lived quietly again, working a number of mundane jobs.
So a bit of violence was not beyond possibility with Racimo. That opened things up again. Bane checked the date that Henry Hoffstater had been killed, and found that Racimo was already living in the same apartment he occupied now, with a girlfriend who had since moved away. It would be a thirty-minute ride from there to where the Hoffstaters lived down in Tribeca. The murder had taken place at eleven at night, and certainly no one in the apartment building would remember whether or not Racimo had left or come back late that night eight years ago.
And one week after the murder, Vince Racimo had moved back to Florida for three years. He had stayed with relatives, working two jobs and staying discreet. When he had money put aside, he come back to Manhattan and ended up working at FINAL VINYL. A year earlier, he had bought the store when the former owner retired due to health problems.
Bane closed the laptop and started walking around the office. When Hoffstater had been killed at home, the police had made no arrests and had not even any suspects. No one made any connection between the death and Racimo of course, so no one had even thought it suspicious that the man had moved away so soon after the murder. People moved to and from the city daily. The Dire Wolf found himself circling the room briskly, picking up old newspapers off the bookcase and putting them down again, pulling the curtains aside to gave at frozen pedestrians on Third Avenue, going past his desk again. The lassitude he had felt earlier that day had vanished, he felt burning with nervous energy.
Reluctantly, he phoned Kate and told him what he had learned and she then insisted on returning to his office. As he waited for her, he called the deli across the street and ordered a twelve-inch ham and cheese sub with mustard and pickle chips, a big bottle of seltzer and a bag of pretzels. It came promptly, he tipped the delivery man whom he had come to recognize, and dug in. He had quite finished when the doorbell rang. Throwing the wrappers in a wastepaper basket, Bane wiped his mouth and went to let Kate Hoffstater in. She went directly to drop down on the couch and said, "Well?"
After he related his visit to FINAL VINYL, Bane stood in front of her. "I've done a little research on this man. You said he's a known psychopath who has the urge to kill at intervals. He's never been arrested, never even questioned in anything like that. What's your source on that?"
"The private eyes I've hired," she said promptly. "Two of them told me he's known as a serial killer but a combination of luck and cunning have kept him out of the electric chair." She turned those angry blue eyes up at him. "They couldn't get anything conclusive on him either! Private eyes are useless, I am sure you'll do better!"
He made a skeptical noise. "I did learn Racimo moved to Florida a week after Henry's death and only came back to Manhattan a year or so again. That's interesting. I'm going to visit him in a little while. He has an apartment right above the record store." Bane raised an eyebrow as if surprised at himself. "We're going to talk about Scarab."
"The Eighties band?" she demanded. "Why the hell.. oh, never mind. As long as you get some reason to prosecute him. I'm going with you, of course. I'll wait outside in case he confesses. I want to see the police take him away."
"As long as you stay out of sight." Bane regarded her thoughtfully. "Kate, when I knew you, you were a teenager and traumatized by the Sanguinarians. Have you ever had any other supernatural events since then?"
"Who, me? No. Once was enough. Except for that time with those creatures and the night my Henry was murdered, I've led a decent peaceful life." She jumped to her feet and took him by the sleeve. "Come on. I'm counting on you to get to the truth, Jeremy."
"That's why I try to do," Bane said as he headed for the door with her, grabbing his topcoat along the way.
IV.
Racimo's apartment was small, warm and cozy. Like the store a few floors below them, it was packed with albums as well as CDs, books and magazines and interesting souvenirs. Evidently Racimo had spent as much time going to concerts as he could when young and had gotten a lot of flyers and posters signed by the artists. They ended up sitting on the rug like teenagers, drinking white wine while Racimo played one bootleg tape of Scarab after another. Racimo got nearly all the wine, Bane barely sipped his glass.
Surprising himself again, Jeremy Bane found he was relaxing and taking in anecdotes about bands he had never heard of. When he was asked to describe his encounter with the fake Scarabs, he did not allow a tape recorder to used but okayed Racimo taking notes. Of course, Bane only told a small fraction of what had happened on that case so long ago. He did not mention the flight to England in the stealth copter CORBY to corner the imposters and he described himself only as a private investigator. Racimo had given him a quizzical glance at that, but had said something.
Eventually, the conversation wound down. The second bottle of wine was more than half empty when Racimo leaned forward and asked quietly, "Jeremy. Tell me the truth. It wasn't just chance that brought you to my shop today. Was it?"
"No, Vince."
"I didn't want to think so. It's so hard to make friends in this city. I was hoping I had met someone I could hang out with. But when you said you were a private eye..."
"I still am, Vince." Bane kept his voice mild. "I was asked to identify you. But to be honest, I've enjoyed this visit and I'm not social by nature."
"Well, thanks for that. So what's the deal? Is this about that armed robbery thing? That was ages ago and I did my service, it's closed."
"No. See if this date means anything to you. December 3, 2007."
Even without Bane's training at reading minute changes in body language, Racimo gave himself away. He pushed himself to his feet clumsily as Bane rose at the same time, still facing him.
"Who sent you here?" Racimo demanded as the door to his apartment opened. Both men swung around to see Kate Hoffstater standing there with her right hand inside a huge handbag.
"He knows what you did," she hissed.
Racimo broke out in heavy sweat so suddenly it was startling. Maybe the wine had some influence on that. "I.. Jeremy, what you don't know is that it was her idea. She got me to do it. You should have seen her ten years ago. She used sex and lots of it, I was infatuated. She promised we would be together forever!"
"Oh come on," Kate scoffed. "Who is going to believe that?"
Bane raised a hand to silence her. "And then what happened, Vince?"
"After.. afterwards, she wouldn't even meet me. It was all for the life insurance and so she could have boys on the side. She gave me money to move away and to never come back. I had never felt so betrayed. But eventually I came back hoping I might run into her somehow." He turned pleading eyes on the woman in the doorway. "Katie..."
"Oh, shut up," she snapped. Kate Hoffstater raised her hand with a brand new Glock 18 held steady in it. "You're not going to lie your way out of this."
The Dire Wolf was not worried for himself. The silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes would protect him against much heavier firearms than that Glock, but he didn't want any gunplay in any case. "Vince, one thing puzzles me. If Kate coerced you into killing her husband, and if you've gotten away with it all these years, why would she want to find you? Why hire detectives? Why hire me?"
Racimo was indeed a little drunk, he yelled promptly, "Because she was afraid I would talk! She used to nag me about how she was afraid someday I would let too much slip. Why do you think she brought a gun with her? She intends to make sure I stay quiet."
"Whoa, now everyone stay calm. Kate, I want you to lower that gun now." Bane turned to stand facing her, open hands held up palms down in a calming gesture.
"She's going to shoot me!" Racimo screamed and made a dive to get far to one side.
"He's going for a gun!" Kate screamed at almost the same time and fired twice. But something she never expected happened. Jeremy Bane had moved into her path, and the bullets hit the unyielding Trom armor and the hard-toned pectoral muscles under it. One bullet glanced aside to crash into a window but the second bullet hit at just the right direct angle to rebound back and punch home in Kate's chest.
"Oh..." she whispered, more in disbelief than anything else. Bane had lunged to yank the gun out of her hand. He caught her and lowered her to the floor. He was amazed himself, all the times he had seen shootouts and he had never witnessed anyone being hit by their own ricochet.
"I'll call 911!" Racimo yelled, getting up from the floor.
"She's already dead. Neat impact right in the heart." Bane let her sag out on the floor and turned back to Racimo. "I'm calling Lt Montez of Homicide. He's going to love this little twist. You realize, Vince, I'm going to have to testify what I heard you and Kate say tonight. You can deny it under oath if you like. It's all going to depend on the lawyers and the juries."
Racimo fell clumsily into an armchair. "I guess.. I guess I shouldn't say anything until I get a lawyer."
"That's up to you," Bane told him. "I'm not arresting you, I'm just holding you here until NYPD arrives. Do you have a gun?"
"Huh? Oh yeah, a 32 revolver. In my bedroom."
"She knew you well enough to count on that. At some point she was going to plant it near you and claim you were going for it." Bane shook his head and took out his Link to patch into the phone system.
"I thought she was so warm and caring...." Racimo muttered.
As he dialed police headquarters, Bane suddenly felt weary and sick of it all. "Well, she used you to get eight years of wealth and young boytoys. I hope she thought it was worth it."
3/11/2015
