Page 22 of Circle of Death
A surge of energy propels her upward, higher and higher. It’s a mental and physical rush like nothing she’s ever experienced. It’samazing!
Her senses are flooded with input. She sees the pattern of the leaves against the sky. She smells the lichens an inch from her nose and the meat in the acorns overhead. Her peripheral vision is phenomenal, like having eyes on the front and sides of her head.
She jumps from the trunk to a low branch, then runs along its length with perfect balance. She leaps to another branch. Then another. Her legs feel like springs. The part of her brain still reserved for human thought is incredulous. But the rest of her is primal instinct and acute perception. She feels totally alert and completely fearless.
Near the top of the tree, the branches narrow and bend under her weight. She senses the tremors from her nose to her tail. While the support is still strong enough, she propels herself toward a thicker limb five feet away. She makes the leap in a full stretch, feeling the air through her fur. But her calculation is off! And now the branch is an inch too far. In less than a blink, she goes from stretching to falling. The ground spins below in a greenish-brown blur and then…impact!
The jolt is hard, but surprisingly painless, cushioned by fat and muscle. A shiver shoots through Maddy’s body. She gasps. Her heart drops to two hundred beats, then slows to a hundred, then eighty. It feels like dying. Her body is heavy now, and it aches. Human again.
Maddy turns slowly, painfully, onto her back. She shades her eyes and sees Dache leaning over her. “Welcome back, Madeline.”
Maddy groans. “You said I’d be sure-footed!”
Dache smiles. “I didn’t say immediately.”
CHAPTER 24
IT’S ONLY A short walk from our place to the 19th Precinct station house, a compact four-story building with a square tower on top. Under Khan’s regime, it was occupied by his secret police, a small army of masked thugs who ruled the city by terror. But today, it’s back in the hands of the NYPD and open to concerned citizens, 24/7.
We stop at the sergeant’s desk. “Who’s the officer in charge?” I ask.
“Who wants to know?” the sergeant shoots back without looking up. Bad start. Reminds me why I went independent in the first place. Back in the 1930s, I wouldn’t have even gone to the cops on a case like this. But it’s a new day. A new century. And I’m trying to be a team player.
Margo steps forward, calm and polite. “We’re private investigators, and we’re here to help with the World’s Fair murders.”
Immediately, I sense a solid presence at my elbow, and a strong whiff of cheap aftershave.
“Whatmurders?”
It’s a thickset man with a badge dangling from his neck. “I’m Detective Roskow,” he says with an upward jerk of his chin. “Can I help you?” Condescending and dismissive. The exactoppositeof helpful.
“I’m Lamont Cranston. This is my wife, Margo Lane. We’re private investigators.”
“Private investigators. Yeah. That much I heard.” Roskow narrows his eyes and looks me over. I see a spark of recognition. “Cranston,” he says, repeating the name slowly, stretching it out. “You live in the big place on Fifth. The old presidential residence.”
“Myold residence, actually,” I tell him. “I was there first.”
“You fought off Khan. In Times Square,” says Roskow. “Impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But that was a year ago, and…”
Roskow interrupts. “And now, you’re what? An amateur sleuth?”
I can feel the heat rising in my neck. “Trust me. We’re anything but amateurs.”
Margo cuts in. “Are you in charge of the case, Detective? Is there a room where we can talk? About the killings?”
Roskow scratches his pale, thinning scalp. “In terms of any killings,” he says, “let the professionals handle it. This is not a hobby.”
Margo steps right up to him. “Take us to the highest-ranking officer in the building,” she says with a smile. “Then get lost.”
Roskow nods and heads for the stairs. I lean over to whisper in Margo’s ear.
“Do you know how beautiful you are when you control minds?”
“Somebody has to do it,” she replies.
Roskow leads us up two flights to a squad room crowded with metal desks and file cabinets left over from another era. Shirt-sleeved detectives slouch in battered chairs, nursing cups of office-pot coffee. Roskow shows us to a large office in the corner. It has a glass wall with blinds pulled all the way shut. Roskow opens the door without knocking. Margo and I slip into the office as Roskow walks off. The tall woman behind the desk stands up, clearly irritated. Captain Myra Bates, according to the brass plaque near her in-basket. “Roskow!” she shouts, looking right past us. No reply.
