HEART AND SOUL - JUDY COLELLA (classic novels to read .TXT) 📗

He could have been carved from stone. Crouched on the narrow ledge circling the rooftop, arms crossed, he hadn’t moved for nearly an hour. Soft, dark hair moving gently in a night breeze was the only indication that this was something living.

Before, below, and above him, Winter City had blossomed with the sun’s disappearance. Sparks and twinkles of light defined a growing sweep of windows, streams of white and red along the streets pointing out head- and tail-lights moving in fits and starts dictated by traffic signals. Daytime life giving way to the night-shift.

As he observed the transformation, one he’d watched with ritual regularity, his enthusiasm no less than those who worshipped the sunrise, evidence of a soul was manifested by a slow smile. He turned his head – nothing else – and looked to his right. Then back to the front, but upward at the taller structures in this man-made valley of the kings of industry. Finally, a glance to his left where the high-rises weren’t quite as high.

Nothing else that happened in the course of any day could diminish the joy of these moments. Sighing, he uncrossed his arms and rose to his feet, stared over the edge at the roadway directly below, twelve stories down. Only someone standing beside him and taking in the same view would recognize his extraordinary lack of fear. He turned on the five-inch-wide foothold with the same confidence and solidity of stance as someone else turning around on a sidewalk. Reluctance in the twist of his mouth, he hopped down – time to go back in.

Before him, the details and obstacles of the rooftop were obscured by night, but he could see everything as if it were midday. The only detail that mattered was the door leading down to his loft apartment; he strode toward it, skirting small protruding vents that another would have tripped over in the dark. Normally, he wouldn’t be going inside this soon, but he had a few chores to do – securing the door downstairs on the bottom floor, checking his mail, things he had neglected to take care of earlier because of some necessary distractions.

Located on the east end of the building next to a small metal door, his mailbox was never full, almost never held anything except junk and useless notices for the building’s previous owners. The address was known as his by very few, the same small number, in fact, aware of his real name. This day he found a postcard written to someone named Florrie. Petey, the one who had signed and sent it, was letting Florrie know the weather was gorgeous in Aruba. Poor Florrie – she’d never get that weather report.

He shoved the postcard into the front pocket of his black leather jacket, planning to add it to the pile of interesting mail he kept in a box – not that he could have said why he did this – and opened the door, ducking to enter. Being six-foot-seven had its good points, but an equal number of bad ones. He didn’t care a whole lot, though, since there was nothing he could do about it either way.

Back in the loft, he glanced out one of the windows. Still early. A quick meal, a half-pot of coffee, and he was ready to head back to the roof. Taking a steaming mugful of caffeine with him, he chose a different spot – a corner this time – to settle into his comfortable, familiar crouch, dark green eyes absorbing the cityscape. Wrapped in a unique solitude that filled him with contentment, he waited out the night.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Thursday nights marked the beginning of Officer Jeremy Lanza’s weekends. This Thursday, his happy anticipation of the scheduled break had been marred by death blocking the entrance to one of the city’s many alleys.

“Figures.” Lanza sighed and reached for his shoulder-com, his expression somewhere between sad and disgusted.

Cracks of static, a voice acknowledging his call, words indistinguishable but sufficient.

“Yeah, this is J. Lanza. Got a stiff.”

The response could have been someone crumpling a sheet of cellophane, but the word “location” was clear enough.

“Uh, yeah. Fourth Street, about halfway down the block between Martine and Cranston.” He peered left and up at a faded number over the doorway of the nearest apartment building. “Closest address is Number 7904.”

More cellophane, a confirmation of sorts.

Lanza took his finger off the button and lowered his hand, cupping it over the butt of his gun. “You had to buy it at the end of my shift? Thanks, buddy.”

The corpse to which he was speaking had once housed the heart and soul of a street-dweller named Bricks. Once. That his soul was no longer present was made obvious by the fact that his heart wasn’t there, either. Someone had cut right through the rib cage and carved it out, leaving a wet, horrifying hole. Had Lanza not seen so much of this kind of thing before, he would have been retching.

Red, white, and blue brilliance sparked against the night and off the sides of the buildings with the arrival of police cruisers. No sirens – not necessary. Car doors slamming, followed by approaching footsteps.

“What the hell, Jer. Another one?”

“I will refrain from exercising my right to wax sarcastic, Phil.” Lanza smirked at Officer Phil Meeks, a long-time friend and colleague, waiting for recognition of the body.

Meeks took out his flashlight, stepped closer, and peered at the face. “Crap. Bricks. Wonder what he did to piss off our serial killer?”

“So it’s official?”

“What – that these are serial murders?” Meeks straightened. “This is what – the fourth one with the same MO? Yeah, I’d say we’re safe in assuming that.”

Lanza glanced at his watch. “I’m off in another ten minutes. You need me to hang around while you guys clean this up?” Say “no” and let me leave – please?

“Not unless you know something that will help.”

“Nope.” Relief.

“Fine. I’ll tell the Captain your report will be filed tomorrow. See ya.”

Lanza smiled. “Yep. Have fun.”

“Right. God, I hate these things.” Nodding toward the corpse, Meeks scratched his nose and stepped aside for the other officers who had begun to surround the body. “See you in the morning, Jer.”

“In the morning.” Lanza smiled at his friend’s back and continued down the street toward the Precinct House, his destination before being halted by the sight of a dirty foot sticking out of the alley’s deep shadow. His plan had been to return to the Precinct, change into street clothes, check his message box, and then go to Arnie’s Pub for a quick beer. Or two. So now, maybe it would be three or four. He had no current commitments – he wasn’t married, had no girlfriend, no pets. He only hoped the Captain wouldn’t intercept him before he finished changing, and make him do his report tonight. That, he decided, would suck. A lot.

As he hurried into the locker room, he pondered the options in getting the matter solved. These murders had been committed by someone who had managed so far to leave not a single iota of evidence, nor any patterns that might suggest motive. They were clean killings, too, with no residual blood around the bodies. Who could do that? How? Most important – why? The Detective Division would be working overtime on it, now that the killings had been given serial status.

Lanza opened his locker and unbuttoned his uniform jacket. From the corner of his eye, he caught his grin reflected in the small mirror attached to the inside of the locker door. If this case turned out to be as enigmatic as he suspected it would be, they’d have to call in help – the other option. As much as the higher-ups despised going outside the Department, occasional situations made such antipathy irrelevant. This could well be one of those cases, too. Which meant calling in the only P.I. who seemed capable of solving the impossible in very short order – and the only person Lanza had ever met who could make the job entertaining.

Gargoyle.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mornings were meant to be ignored. They were invented purely to give the night a running start. The space between the two had its own purpose – sleep. Anything that intruded during that space was aggravating. Anything that intruded during the time before, specifically, the morning, was an outrage.

Xavion Raphael G’Argyle was outraged. Glaring with one open eye at the blue light glaring back at him from the face of his phone, he sat up, pushing himself back against the headboard of his narrow bed, and jabbed the “Answer” button. “Yes?”

“Is this Gargoyle?”

No, it’s his pet rat. “What do you need?”

Throat-clearing sounds. “Yes. This is Police Captain Faragon of the 89th Precinct here in Winter City. We have an enigma, and since you’ve helped us before with this sort of thing, and since we’re completely – ”

“I’ll be there in an hour.” He ended the call and closed his eye. “Not on my agenda today, but whatever.” Both eyes opened, he flung the covers away hard enough to cause them to slide off the end of the bed, and got up.

His apartment was a converted loft in an otherwise abandoned factory. He owned the building, but never asked about its original purpose. The size and layout suited his needs, and that was all that mattered. What little equipment remained told no story – something that looked like a generic conveyor belt, useful for any number of purposes; a few large vat-like things; and a great deal of metal, wood, and paper debris. Since he rarely spoke with people, and never gave out his address, no one had said, “Oh, so you live in the old Whatever Factory!” With some thought, he probably could have figured it out, and with a little research, could have easily learned what kind of place it had been, but he simply didn’t care enough to do either.

The mirror over the bathroom sink was new, as was everything else in use, with the exception of his desk. New and pricey, but tasteful. Even the mirror cost more than a bathroom version normally would, framed in hand-wrought iron fleur-de-lis medallions. He stared at himself, not sure if he should bother shaving. The stubble was more shadow than beard. Still…he hated facial hair most of the time, and since his mood was anything but jovial at the moment, he went for hate.

Twenty minutes later, clean-shaven, dressed in black jeans, dark red t-shirt, and a black leather coat, he locked up and went out. Behind a pile of old, broken wooden boxes in a far corner of the lower floor was his red and black Harley Softail Fat Boy, custom-built to accommodate his size. At that point, it was the only thing that could elicit a smile. After rolling it through the path he’d made to one of the side doors, he donned the helmet and got on. The machine started smoothly with its distinctive Harley sound, making his smile widen.

The day suited the city’s name – cold, damp, the sky like the dull side of rolled aluminum. Through the tint of the helmet’s visor, everything was cast in yellow. Not an improvement. But the bike roared smoothly along the streets, and he didn’t mind the jaundice effect.

Several officers were outside when he pulled into a space near the front doors. One of them began to approach as Xavion turned off the bike, but then he got off and the officer backed away. The startled-looking policeman must have realized he had something more important to do…

After removing his helmet, the man who was known in the Precinct only as Gargoyle trotted up the steps and entered the building. A few minutes later he was being shown into the office of Captain Faragon.

“Thanks for coming in so