“After the Newells were killed—”
The Newells. The Scarsdale couple. Somehow she’d managed to forget their name, but there it was.
“—Chesbro sued the estate in a civil case, figuring it was like O. J. Simpson. Jury found O.J. not guilty, but he got clobbered in a civil suit by the families of his victims. Chesbro sued, and I guess he was pretty surprised when they settled almost immediately. The lawyer who represented the Newells’ estate, who negotiated that settlement, was Bullington.”
Nora frowned. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.”
“Thing is, prior to that, Bullington had a rep as just some sleazebag ambulance chaser. And when the case was over, he went back to being exactly that.”
“So why’s his name come up again now?”
“He’s showing an interest in these killings, talking to the uniforms who found two of the kids’ bodies. There’s evidence he’s been tracking the case electronically, though he’s good at covering his trail.”
“Has he approached the families? Maybe he wants to represent them, get them to sue the city?”
“That’s what’s weird—no approaches that I can uncover, at least.”
“If he’s out to make a quick buck, that’s who he’d talk to.”
“So I figured,” Sam said. “Thought I should tell you, in case you’ve got more influence with the investigating officers than I do. It’s Mayhew and Symes.”
The names rang a bell. “Wait, Mayhew as in the detective who fucked up the Chesbro case?”
“One and the same. Way I hear it, this is her shot at redemption. You should ask her about Bullington, see if they’re looking at him for anything. Worth a shot, right?”
Nora smiled. “And worth working on together, I suppose?”
“If you insist. I mean, I know you’ll do anything to spend more time with me.”
Nora drank some water, taking the quiet time to think about what Sam was saying.
“So, are we going to catch up soon?” he asked.
“Yeah. Yeah.” But Nora’s mind was already spinning. Bullington had represented the Newell estate, which meant he’d been hired by someone connected to the Children of Phonos. Now he was sniffing around the murdered kids in Kingsbridge. If she wanted to root out the core membership of the cult, it looked as if the lawyer would be the best place to start.
“You sound tired.”
“Two a.m., remember?” She tried to inject some humor into her voice, but knew he could hear through the fa?ade.
“Let’s do lunch tomorrow,” he suggested. “Noon, Lucy’s on the Square.”
Nora smiled, and this time it was genuine. “It’s a date.”
“We don’t do dates. We’re friends.”
“With benefits.”
“Hmm. Don’t get me going.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“No problem. Get some sleep. Kick a cat for me.” Sam hated her cats. He was allergic to them, and he swore that they homed in on him if he ever came to visit. That was why most of their overnight meetings were at his place in Brooklyn.
Nora placed her phone carefully onto the worktop and reached for the kettle. Sirens rang in the distance. Muted voices came in from elsewhere in the apartment block. Horns honked. The sounds of the city ensured that the night was never silent, and soon she would be back out in it.
Dawn was still few hours away, and in that time Indigo would get to work.
*
The skills one acquired as an investigative journalist. Even though Bullington didn’t advertise his services as a lawyer, it only took her five minutes and three databases to scare up his address. After that, she spent some time considering what she already knew; then she showered, dressed, ate a light breakfast, and made a big mug of coffee.
Forming a plan always gave her a sense of control, even if she couldn’t shake the idea that her level of control was far more nebulous than she wanted to believe.
Indigo traveled through the predawn gloom, stepping into a shadow in her apartment and emerging again on West Forty-Ninth Street. A squirrel scampered away, squealing in shock and rustling through a pile of refuse bags lying torn open across an alleyway. She shrugged away the darkness drawn to her and moved out onto the street, intending to confront Bullington as Nora. Though her blood was up and her fury ignited, killing was always a last resort, even if the lawyer turned out to be connected to the Children of Phonos. The temptation to just pitch him off a roof would be far greater if she went to him as Indigo.
So Nora it was.
In the hour before sunrise, the Manhattan streets were already busy. Delivery trucks rumbled along concrete canyons, a couple of police cruisers rolled by, taxis driven by tired drivers wended their way from one place to another. Pedestrians walked with a purpose, to or from work. Vagrants still huddled in a few doorways, and Nora felt eyes upon her as she walked from north to south on Ninth. She was cautious, but not worried. She carried her press card, useful in case of questions from a curious police officer.
If danger came from another quarter, Indigo was ready to spring from the shadows.
She had intentionally emerged several blocks from Bullington’s address, so she could gather her thoughts while walking. The slayings were ritualistic, which meant human sacrifice in some sort of perverted black-magic bullshit. The Phonoi thought themselves servants to the gods of murder, but they were really only paying homage to the gods of blood and death, sickness and perversion.
She hated every one of them. The trouble was that she was constantly struggling with the desire to hate herself, as well. She kept murder as a final option, and she had a life of her own to live. She was more than a vigilante, more than the shadows she wielded as Indigo. Nora Hesper had a job, she had joys and responsibilities. Yes, of course, she had used her work as a journalist to poke into the Children of Phonos, but without much luck. Now she could only wonder whether things might have been different. If she’d put everything else aside, if she’d dedicated every moment to tracking down and exterminating all of the members of this chapter of the cult a year ago, would these four children still be alive?
Maybe, she thought. Or maybe you’d have just pulled more chapters to New York and there’d have been even more twisted bastards sacrificing kids to the murder gods.
When she reached Bullington’s address, she crossed the street and entered a diner. Even at seven in the morning it was busy, and Nora found comfort in the gentle hubbub. A radio played in the background, some people ate breakfast and drank coffee alone, others sat in pairs or small groups, laughing and chatting as they prepared for their day ahead. Most of them would live a normal day with few surprises. She envied them.