Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [15]
“I said I wanted you to call me if you ever needed my help.” Lopez sighed and nodded. “And I meant it, Esther. God help me.”
“But I don’t know your number by heart.” I hardly knew any numbers by heart; and I hadn’t had occasion to dial Lopez’s number in well over two months, after all. “And you’re not listed. I knew the cops here could get your phone number, of course. But they wouldn’t give it to me.”
“Go figure.”
“So I asked them to call you.”
“And that was the icing on the cake. They thought that was hilarious. A cop involved with the crazy hooker in their tank.” He smiled wryly. “It’s like an episode of The Dirty Thirty.”
“Sorry.”
He waved aside my apology. “Look, all things considered, you did the right thing, calling me tonight.”
“Does that mean you’re going to get me out of here?” I asked hopefully.
He didn’t seem to hear me. He frowned suddenly and murmured, “An episode of The Dirty . . .” His voice trailed off and he stood there silent and motionless, a faint frown on his face, staring off into space. Thinking again. Piecing together things scattered in his head and making a coherent pattern with them.
After a moment, still frowning slightly at something I couldn’t see, he said, “You’re sure you told the cops here that you’re with the production that’s filming near here tonight?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I said. “I was trying not to be charged, after all.”
“Did you tell them what the production was?”
I thought back. “No, I don’t think so. I was more focused on trying to convince them to send help for Darius.”
Lopez shook his head and murmured, “But they must have known. It’s their precinct. Of course they knew.”
“Knew what?” I said.
He looked at me, his gaze clear now. “That the production filming in their precinct tonight is The Dirty Thirty.”
I frowned. “So?”
“So that’s a strikingly strange story that you’re telling, Esther,” he said. “A guy with a sword uttering vague warnings. A couple of gargoyles attacking a man in a tuxedo. A severed hand . . .” He shook his head. “My guess is that you got caught in the middle of an elaborate practical joke.”
“What?”
“And since you were alone in the dark in an unfamiliar neighborhood, your imagination helped it along.” He paused before adding, “You do have a vivid imagination.”
“But why would anyone play such a gruesome practical joke on me?”
“I doubt it was intended for you. It may not even have been intended for anyone in particular.”
“I don’t understand. Why would—” I gasped as I realized what he was thinking. “You think cops were playing a joke on The Dirty Thirty tonight? On the crew or cast members?”
“I’d say that it seems more likely than a young man in Harlem hunting man-eating gargoyles with a sword.” He shrugged. “Don’t underestimate how much cops hate that show.”
“I heard there’d been some unpleasant incidents last year, but no one mentioned anything this . . . creative.” I frowned. “So you think the cops who arrested me were part of it?”
“Maybe. Or maybe they just came to the same conclusion after running Darius Phelps’ name through the system.” He shook his head. “I was pretty thrown by that, but since a prank has occurred to me, it’s probably occurred to them, too.”
“Thrown by what?”
“You supposedly saw a walking corpse.” He looked at me. “A Harlem resident named Darius Phelps, exactly fitting the description you gave, died three weeks ago.”
4
To my relief, Lopez made my arrest go away, as if it had never happened. The cops of the Two- Five released me with far more merriment than contrition; but since they were letting me go, I didn’t care.
I decided against reporting the theft of my purse, partly to spare Lopez more embarrassment (I shrewdly sensed that my description of the assailant would