Dancing With Death: Aubrey Greigh Mysteries, #2

CHAPTER 1

MORE THAN A FEW YEARS FROM NOW….

Late Evening

Monday, August 10 th

City Lux Executive Apartments

Suite 3-16

9 Tietgensgade

Kobenhavn (Copenhagen), Denmark

Something is very wrong…. The thought prickled Aubrey Greigh’s every nerve ending. In contrast to the warm hallway, a chill breeze funneled through the crack between the lavish suite’s entry door and its jamb. Perhaps an omen. The door ajar? Not good. He whispered a curse as he stood with his back to the opulent hall. A gust of cold air caused a momentary whistle as it puffed out from inside the suite. His skin crawled as goosebumps sprouted all over his body, confirming his fear that something indeed was very wrong.

On instant alert, he peeked in and eased open the door with one knuckle, his face a mask of concentration; if he carried a gun, it would have been out in front, held low and ready. Not a master of mixed martial arts, but Greigh managed to take care of himself in a fight better than most. Peter? Nothing. Louder. The same. He had expected Peter Fontera to meet him at the door, flashing his dazzling white dental implants. He was a force of nature at any gathering; a man who elicited both admiration and exasperation with his quirks.

Greigh had never been here before. As he stepped into the suite, a rental, he noticed a portrait in the dim light of the foyer - a framed headshot on the only table. It was as though someone had placed it there with deliberation, to catch the bright recessed spot overhead. The whole room was lit with the dim glow of that single light focused on that one picture.

The atmosphere of the place felt eerie and uncomfortable. Greigh struggled to identify why—something about that photo, and the silence, unsettled him. He couldn't wait to leave. That portrait—an oil painting?—was small enough to fit into a suitcase, but large enough to broadcast professional vanity. It featured the tools of Peter’s trade: a Botox’d face and perfect hair too good to be true. His movie-star smile and dimpled chin hovered over a wild bowtie. The light achieved its purpose at just the right angle.

Peter was famous for those hideous bowties. Even the characters he portrayed in every movie all wore them. The entertainment media loved to report that those ties were the subject of an ironclad provision in his every contract. Made him appear a tad wonky. Only Peter could pull it off. Greigh didn’t care. He didn’t know Peter, other than as a source. Most said Fontera was the nicest bloke ever. Greigh allowed his set of ever-present antique brass knuckles gripped in his right hand and a small but powerful flashlight in his left to guide him.

And there he sprawled. Stunned, but in order to get to him, Greigh had no choice but to track through a spreading pool of blood that surrounded the international celebrity who now lay at his feet. Peter appeared either already dead, or close to it. The body was unrecognizable except for that silly tie. Greigh’s stomach flipped, but he had already envisioned this horrific scene in his mind’s eye. Didn’t make it any easier. He swallowed hard, mopped his brow. Sweating despite this cool breeze? To business, then.

The night air caused the white curtains to billow inward at the balcony’s French doors open wide to a starry sky and the heavens. How bloody poetic…. Before tonight, everyone in the western hemisphere would have recognized Peter Fontera from stage and screen. His popularity had soared as the most prominent Chicago studios satisfied a sudden retro demand. Windy City Productions led the way with stars like Peter Fontera and Stacy Michaels. A few years ago, the public once again hungered for skilled human actors and real-world settings in their entertainment, versus the industry standard—those that were computer generated or enhanced. C.G. and A.I. had been all the rage for decades. It had grown old and Greigh agreed.

So handsome in life, Peter himself now seemed artificial. Like a staged corpse in a horror flick. He was still alive, wasn’t he? Or was that just incorrigible optimism? Though repulsed by violent and messy death, Greigh went to work. All right, then. I must try. Pulse at the carotid? Inconclusive. At the femoral artery? Weak, but there. Mouth-to-mouth? Out of the question. Not much left of the poor bastard’s face. Like that was one of the killer’s targets. Likely no killing wound there, but no chance for a controlled airway. Chest compressions, it is.

These high-velocity thoughts swirled like errant dust devils through Greigh’s parched consciousness, along with the gruesome spectacle of Peter’s exposed crotch area that had been reduced to soupy kibble. Oh, bloody hell! Another gut lurch. He focused on Peter’s chest. Straightaway, he started cracking Fontera’s rib and sternum cartilage a hundred times per minute until he accepted it was all too little, too late. Still, he kept at it. No stranger to violence, Greigh nevertheless abhorred it. Well, he avoided it. Most of the time.

With Fontera’s blood and other fluids now everywhere, including all over Greigh’s own hands, arms, knees, and the soles of his sandals, he discarded any concern over leaving fingerprints and distinctive tracks. Couldn’t be helped. He had not worn gloves, much less waders. Did not expect to slog through a bloodbath and drop to his hands and knees into the thick of it. After less than two minutes, he gave up, already huffing like he’d run a race. Most can’t appreciate the exertion proper chest compressions require. He mopped his sweaty brow. Did I just smear this poor blighter’s blood all over my forehead? Shite! What had Peter learned that he’ll now take with him to his grave? If only….

CHAPTER 2

Aweek earlier, Interpol contacted Greigh as he ate breakfast in his suite at the Hotel Literati within Chicago’s Near Southwest Loop. His presence was required in Denmark within twelve hours. Unprecedented. Until now, he had always done the contacting. And he’d be traveling incognito? Another first. False papers—passport, international driver’s license, credit cards, deep background with a very authentic criminal history, should that be required—the works. It would all be waiting in a locker at O’Hare, they said. This was also new. Nobody creates a complete legend—a deep cover identity—in twelve hours. Pre-meditated, then. Interesting. He’d talk to Freya about that.

Now, he stood in a murdered man’s apartment. Earlier today, Peter Fontera had contacted him. He’d refused to talk over comms. Under his cover, Greigh had posed as a colorful entertainment reporter covering the latest Windy City movie project, Dancing With Death. He’d shared coffee with the actor at the waterfront movie set the last few days during breaks in the shooting. They’d hit it off—two creatives. At least, that was Peter’s perspective. Greigh could be a chameleon.

Tonight, not knowing who to trust, Peter said he had vital information to share, but only with Greigh. Too little, too late, which apparently, was to be tonight’s theme. Greigh liked the lanky but dashing fellow. He now cursed himself for burning two precious minutes administering useless chest compressions to a corpse. Even under less dismal conditions, he knew the failure statistics behind CPR—cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Here and now, they were far worse than that. There was always room for hope until… there wasn’t. That time—measured in a few dozen seconds—had come and gone. Well, then, right so! Face obliterated, chest wound still pumping, but… no defensive wounds? Unconscious, unresponsive. Shite be on the saints!

Time passed Greigh by in a fog of futile optimism—his Kryptonite. If there was any chance…. Now, the police couldn’t be far. After failing to raise a good pulse, Greigh got to his feet. Almost slipped and fell in the wet mess. Even his toes stuck together in a stinky soup. He’d worn his thinking sandals despite the nip in the air. If only he’d known….

Time to beat a hasty retreat until the team could sort all of this. He turned to bolt out of the suite’s door on the sixteenth floor of the ultra-contemporary City Lux condos. He needed to brief his handler. No sooner had he crossed the threshold than a gazillion-candlepower beam stunned him.

Hænder, hvor jeg kan se dem. Nu!

Bloody brilliant! Just what I need. But then, maybe I can learn more as a suspect than as a witness. Greigh’s working knowledge of Danish made it clear the cop had said, Hands where I can see them. Now! He complied. No sudden moves. Not now. Street cops in any country made Greigh’s left eye tick. The voice behind the light reported over comms. Translating in his head: One in custody.

Four rough hands shoved him face-first against the wall to his immediate right, in the hallway just outside the suite. Not his first rodeo, as the Yanks might say. Three other tactical-clad human tanks slid by to clear the rest of the massive suite with their artillery at the ready. Who had called them in? Were these lads the Lux’s concierge cops? Nope, these boys were Tactical Squad—or whatever they called them here. Copenhagen’s finest.

From deeper inside the apartment, one cop said, Body! And then three seconds later, a different voice shouted, Clear! Then one more. A softer voice, likely the first bugger again, almost inaudible from the hallway, spoke with, what? Horrific awe? His response translated to Holy Mother of God…. Greigh didn’t even need to mentally translate.

Yup. That was the first one who had discovered Peter’s remains. Is that wanker now vomiting in their crime scene? Sure sounds like it. A tank with a sensitive gut? The bugger must be a rookie. One of the Tacs? That is, a member of a highly-trained elite tactical squad like those in the Chicago Enforcement Department? This certainly isn’t Chicago!

Before being told to do so, Greigh piled both palms on top of his head, leaving two smeared handprints on the wall in front of his face. Two hands—not his—turned out his pockets, while two more held a compact H&K 9mm pistol to his left temple in a white-knuckled grip. They discovered his wallet, US passport, a few Danish and American bills in his favorite money clip—a relic from when cash was king. They dug deeper for some loose change, an A-bus pass, a folding knife, his old brass knuckles (he imagined trying to explain them), and his miniature high-lumens flashlight. He winced. The officer handling him bruised the boys—the family jewels—exploring the depths of his jeans’ front pockets, perhaps hoping to root out some homicidal lint.

Bollocks! Greigh stared at his own shadow through slitted eyes. It stared back at him from the lavender wall, an inch from his nose. The cop-strength body spot lit his backside with his hands still on his head. Not his best pose for the official body cam recording of the arrest. His elevated elbows gave his sharp-edged shadow a shape that reminded him of a bird of prey. Someone bloody well preyed on poor Peter tonight.

Greigh heard the cuffs clink as they snicked away from an equipment belt behind him. He anticipated the need to bring his right hand down to get hooked up. But not so soon or so fast that the arresting officer would think he was making an offensive move. He swung his arm out to his side in a slow, wide arc, always keeping his hand open and visible, until it was low enough. With one hand now cuffed—pinch-tight—he lowered his open left palm behind his back in the same fashion.

After pinning him harder against the wall, the cop grunted the Danish equivalent of an appreciative, Huh, like it was a relief dealing with a professional. Textbook hook-up. But the poor fellow’s breath broadcast yesterday’s garlic. Caused Greigh’s stomach to lurch. Again. He’d bet this edgy officer was likely into his second or third shift in a row. The guy could use a change of uniform and a shower. Bad breath and BO—the universal labor language. Exhausting, all this scurrying about.

One officer read the Danish equivalent of Greigh’s rights to him. Since Greigh had yet to utter a single syllable, they still assumed he was a local, despite the passport. Hmmm… they’re not as sharp as I thought. Or….

Another stout fellow escorted him to a waiting paddy wagon outside, a high-security panel van out on Tietgensgade. Looked like they assumed he was a very dangerous guy—like an airborne tornado biding its time to drop from the clouds and strike without warning.

It was mighty uncomfortable to be so wet and sticky. He was a mess, face to feet, stinking like yesterday’s sewage. Like he’d been rolling in the stuff. Not just blood, either. Smart cops. They’d thrown a plastic sheet over the seat toward which he was being guided in no uncertain terms. They forced him down onto a bench in the van’s cage just inside its rear door on the driver’s side, but the doors remained open.

After a while, old blood ripens and reeks before it scabs or scales. And that’s just the blood. Even rugged Naugahyde upholstery is not immune. Not even in this snazzy Volvo EV van—high security law enforcement edition. They seemed to have sent the first string—except for the projectile vomiter. Nothing but the best for the suspected killer of a celebrity victim—McQ would call poor Peter a vic.

CHAPTER 3

Abattalion of media vultures already flocked in force out on Tietgensgade Boulevard, even this late on a Monday night. Must be a slow news day. By the time the tac squad led Greigh out for his perp walk, the night burned brilliantly from all the spotlights out on the Tietgensgade. Serious battery power pushed megawatts out there. They dappled the caravan of police cruisers and his van-slash-mobile cell in high-contrast through the dried leaves that still clung to the trees lining this exclusive neighborhood’s sidewalks.

A veritable media circus had already set up behind the portable barricades beyond the Lux’s circle drive. Felt like an old-fashioned movie premier in Old Hollywood. Somehow, the media always got the word, almost before the cops. This might be a brilliant scene for a reality series called Star Killers.

But the Men in Black surprised Greigh. He smiled at his private quip. He spotted the pair of suits near the van’s still-open rear doors. His sharp eyes zeroed in on tiny lapel pins adorning these two well-tailored hulks. Each pin bore a white cross on a field of red inside a thin gold border. Hard to miss on those custom-fit charcoal suits. DDIS agents? Their international colleagues referred to them as the Danish Defense Intelligence Service. After all, who in bloody hell accurately pronounced their agency’s real moniker in Danish—Forsvarets Efterretningstjeneste. Or who’d remember what the acronym FE meant? The agency was enigmatic enough to be known by other names, too.

Greigh had spent time in Denmark. While researching one of his earlier manuscripts, he learned that DDIS responsibilities included collecting information about national political, financial, scientific, and military interests. Maybe even UFOs, for all he knew. So, why would DDIS be interested in a common homicide—even that of a celebrity? What might they know that he didn’t? Had they already discovered Peter’s intel? Most curious. He’d ask Freya Ecklund, his Interpol handler.

Fontera had been in Copenhagen for the last three weeks on location for his starring role in Dancing With Death. Although he couldn’t have foreseen this scene as his finale. And nobody had captured the murder on video. Some cold-hearted prig of a producer would no doubt lament that more than their star’s violent demise.

Celebrity victims always nipped the best coverage—especially homicides with a salacious theme. And if that theme involved a bizarre modus operandi? Even juicier. Was this personal vengeance, or something else altogether?

Greigh worried about the news crews. He hoped they were far enough away…. Vultures have a job to do, too, I suppose. The same everywhere. Nobody seems to have recognized me. So far, at least. Greigh kept his head lowered, just the same. Why on earth had Interpol asked him to travel under a false identity this time? Made no sense. If anyone recognized him, he’d be famous for yet another reason. Bloody brilliant, this.

He could not afford such exposure. He imagined his publisher stroking out. Besides, all of this was inconsistent with the damn mission. And he had screwed up. It was stupid to attempt triage with that much blood loss and soft tissue damage. But I had to try, hadn’t I? Precious minutes lost needed to make his escape. A leopard can’t change his stripes, as they say. Or some such rot. American idioms!

There’d be hell to pay, and he’d be the one paying. But these cops were the least of his worries. He’d try not to think about all of this until after they’d cleaned him up. If he was lucky, they’d subject him to a good night’s rest in a holding cell, and possibly even a state-sponsored breakfast. He hadn’t eaten or slept since, what, yesterday? Shite!

Not easy to switch off the mind of an investigator. Despite his best efforts to do so, Greigh reflected during his bumpy van ride to Tårnby—he’d heard the driver mention their destination while chatting with his dispatcher. Greigh imagined Fontera’s luxury rental suite before all the blood on the floor, damaged walls, ceiling and furnishings, not to mention the contents of Peter’s vacated bladder and colon soaking into the grout between the Italian Travertine floor tiles. Someone had rented that apartment almost a month ago for the movie star—probably his studio. It was every bit as spectacular as his famous high-rise on the Mag Mile back in Chicago. That’s what the locals called it—Mag was short for Magnificent. They called it that or the Miracle Mile—a bunch of overpriced apartment buildings and concierge businesses inside the West Loop. That patch of ground was once quite the tourist trap.

The best apartments boasted the most splendid lake views. But Fontera preferred the river side. They re-gentrified that entire area on the Chicago River about twenty years ago so they could justify the exclusive—that is, bloody inflated—prices for that rarified real estate.

These days, most stars and other celebrities huddled near each other on Celebrity Row out at the southeastern shore of Lake Michigan. That portion of Chicago—the city now a massive regionplex of fifty million souls—was recently part of Western Indiana before bored politicians redrew invisible state lines. The lake now stunk like shite, but… The Row was lake shore. Everyone said The Row made Hollywood Hills look like a shantytown by comparison. They even featured their own mag-lev limo train from out there into all the major studio lots north of the Cicero district. And the rolling parties between The Row and Cicero were the stuff of legends. No doubt Fontera’s suite on the Mag Mile, as well as his mansion out on The Row, would fall to his heirs, if he had any. Shite-for-brains idiots with money. I’m different, though… aren’t I?

Fontera never had a chance, the poor sod. In the few minutes Greigh had been in the celebrity’s suite near Copenhagen’s city center, he concluded the killer was not a professional. Too messy. Too personal. Or it was just meant to appear that way, as if someone was sending a message. A brutal one. It appeared the movie star had expired from exsanguination. Greigh’s cop friend in Chicago—the lovely Detective Chance McQuillan, a.k.a. McQ—would say he bled out.

A pro hitter would have delivered decisive strikes—two or more in the chest, one in the head or face—just to make sure. But it appeared the killer’s blade hit no vital organs. Sloppy, unless… for appearances….

Greigh speculated Fontera might even have still been survivable as the killer fled. He’d assumed so, hadn’t he? It’s possible he even interrupted the kill. And that would beg the question of how he missed the murderer. He’d ponder that.

Further, Peter’s door was ajar when Greigh had arrived. No evidence of forced entry, either. And that high-end apartment featured a sophisticated security system with a video monitor. Yes, Peter knew his killer and had let him or her in. He’d pass all this info on to Freya at his earliest opportunity. And possibly to the local police at the appropriate time.

They sat in the Tårnby station twenty minutes later. The veteran street cop with the bad breath and body odor sat behind a small steel desk with chipped corners and dented sides. He stared at Greigh’s passport. Still covered in drying blood from head to every toe—no doubt that was by design—Greigh squirmed in the bolted-down guest chair with his right hand cuffed to its frame. The cop must have construed his squirming as post-homicidal jitters.

Tac guys doubling as intake processors? Interesting. Not Chicago, for sure. This squad room, though smaller, vibed very much like McQ’s at the ninety-ninth precinct house back in Chicago; that is, before they placed her on administrative leave for getting a civilian killed and he lost his access through her. Like McQ’s squad, this one stunk of burnt coffee and something more foul. Like week-old sweat socks dipped in rancid cooking fat. He glanced up at the stained ceiling. Lots of dents in the acoustic tile, like this guy’s desk, only more holes than dents up there. Under his feet, most floor tiles had long ago defeated their underlying adhesive and lost their corners. Raucous dregs of humanity acted out minor flurries of boisterous drama all around them. Yup, much like the nine-nine.

Officer Halitosis said in accented English lilting with some volume over the din, So, Mr. Arthur Granville, is it? What kind of name is that?

The very Scottish Aubrey Greigh said, Irish, laddy. Grew up there. Now a naturalized American citizen, proud to say. Dual citizenship, you see.

So, Mr. Granville, why did you kill him? Mr. Fontera? Did you use those old metal knuckles?

What say you just process me in, Officer? I’d be delighted to chat with your detectives.

"You’ll then be spending the night in a holding cell, røvhul." Greigh knew that was the Danish version of smart-arse—paraphrased for polite company.

’That’ll be quite alright. What are your meal options down there, then, boyo?

Even the Danes allowed those incarcerated one phone call. Freya, a complication in the mission plan, dear. I’m calling from Tårnby station. Fontera is dead. It was personal, not a hit. Or at least meant to appear that way. I’m a suspect and in custody.

Keep your mouth shut and sit tight.

He just adored his Interpol handler’s accent—less lilt, more growl. And he loved her black American Express Card for bail money even more. They did that here, didn’t they?

CHAPTER 4

As the clock ticked off eleven PM local time, Greigh slid into the front seat of Freya Ecklund’s ancient Volvo station wagon that sat waiting for him at the curb of the wet cobblestone street outside Tårnby Police Station. Must have been a cloud burst. The jalopy’s heater didn’t work. Greigh was used to the cold. It appeared by her shivers and bulky wraps that Freya was not.

You stuck to your cover, yes? Is that your blood on your clothes?

Freya, I am ever enthralled by your charming accent and your sumptuous ride. This is not my blood. Fortunately, the cops allowed me to clean up a bit. But alas, I’ll look forward to changing. He swiveled around to peek into the back seat after adjusting his feet around and on top of myriad fast-food wrappers on the floor. He didn’t have to say anything about that. Though she was tall at a willowy five-ten, his six-two would still tower over her. Both their heads came close to kissing the headliner. She must have her seats as high as they go.

"Cut the crap, Greigh. What do they know?"

And your knowledge of American colloquialisms? Truly impressive, my dear. He wrinkled his nose at the rancid fried-food odors rising around him in noxious waves, not all that different from inside the station.

Greigh!

Sorry. He grinned. Rubbed his nose with vigor, using the back of his right index finger. Re-smoothed his mustache with his right forefinger and thumb, stroked his beard. Her impatience was legendary. At least with him. He tested it, although he wasn’t sure why he relished doing so. "My cover is blown, as the Yanks say. Peter finally recognized me this morning while I was canvassing their set. Maybe it was something I said. But it turned out alright. He’s a huge fan. Nobody else recognized me. I kept my head down, and he agreed ‘mum’s the word.’ Some day soon, you’ll have to share with me why an alternate identity was necessary, Freya. Plus, why the hell did you request me for this case? Smuggling isn’t my sort of muck."

Damn it, Greigh!

"Yes, yes.