“It’s in his pocket.”
“She didn’t hear it ring.”
“It’s on silent.”
Nabandian thought about it for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I don’t buy it.”
“It’s on silent, George.” Engels savored the moment, sensing that this really was the final piece in the puzzle. “It’s in his pocket, it’s on vibrate. That’s how he does it!” Engels’s voice was rising in excitement. “He’s at the apartment. He kills Ryan. Takes the phone, puts it on vibrate, leaves it in his pocket, gets to the girl’s place, calls the phone, presses it in his pocket, and talks to himself for three minutes and however many seconds. What does she know? She hears him talking, thinks Ryan’s talking back. He thinks we’ll think Ryan’s talking back as well once we see the records, and that’s why he wants to make sure we check them. That’s why he tells us to!”
Other people in the office were glancing impatiently at Engels.
“Solving a crime here, people!” said Engels.
Gobineau applauded sarcastically.
Engels took a bow, then turned back to Nabandian. “Huh, George? Come on, that’s how he does it.”
“The girl didn’t see him press to receive the call.”
Engels didn’t say a word. Instead, he stood up, took out his cell phone, switched it to Silent, held it up to Nabandian, and turned it front to back, back to front, like it was some kind of exhibit in a magician’s trick. “Close your eyes.”
Nabandian hesitated.
“Close your eyes, George.”
Others were watching now, Bartok, Gobineau, the whole room. Nabandian closed his eyes. Engels put his phone in one of his pants pockets. He put his other hand in the other pocket.
“All right, open them. Now call me. Come on, George. Call me.”
Nabandian got out his cell phone. Engels stood in front of him with both hands in his pockets. Reluctantly, Nabandian called Engel’s number. The call went through.
“I just pressed to talk, right? Listen to your phone. Right? Now, tell me which pocket I’ve got the phone in.”
Nabandian’s eyes moved from one pocket to the other.
“Left,” called out Gobineau.
“Right,” said someone else.
Engels grinned. He pulled the phone out.
“All right,” conceded Nabandian. “It’s possible. But how does he get the phone back there?”
“Where?”
“Ryan’s phone’s in the bedroom when he’s found, remember? How does Holding get it back there?”
“Easy,” said Engels. “He puts it there.”
“When?”
“Don’t you remember, George? It was Holding who found him!”
The older cop frowned. He thought about that. Engels was watching him, grinning like a chipmunk.
“We need to check the phone for his prints,” said Nabandian.
“Sure, but even if they’re not there, what does it prove? He was careful.”
“We still need to check.”
“We need to get them first.”
Nabandian nodded. He looked up at Engels. “I think it’s time to have another chat with Mr. Holding.”
* * *
He wasn’t at work, didn’t answer his phone, and wasn’t at his apartment, where the police tape across the door had been removed. He had said he’d be staying at his girlfriend’s. They headed for the Upper West Side.
They rang the doorbell, but no one answered. They got into the brownstone by ringing another doorbell at random and telling the person who answered that they were police and had some questions for them. Then they went straight to apartment 7. Engels listened at the door. He knocked.
Silence.
Engels knocked again. He put his ear to the door.
“You hear anything?” whispered Nabandian.
Engels shook his head. His eyes narrowed. A creak. Maybe from inside.
“What is it?” whispered Nabandian.
Engels put a finger to his lips. He couldn’t be sure. Beyond the door, there was silence. But there were small noises as well. But you get small noises in empty apartments. The breeze through an open window, for example.
“She got a pet?” he whispered to Nabandian.
Nabandian shrugged.
“Is there a fire escape out of this building?”
“Probably.”
Engels listened again. Now he did hear something. Definite. Footsteps. Some kind of muffled noise as well. He glanced at Nabandian and drew his gun. Nabandian drew a gun as well.
Engels pounded on the door. “Open up!” he yelled. “Police!”
There were more footsteps inside. Engels pounded and yelled again. He jumped back and slammed into the door. Again. The door splintered off its hinges and Engels went stumbling in.
Nabandian ran past him. The living room was empty. He kept going, gun held out in front of him, swung around a corner, and then he pulled open a door.
One man was disappearing onto the fire escape. A second stood at the window. He turned, coughing.
“Drop it!” yelled Nabandian, glimpsing a gun in his hand.
For an instant the man looked around, at the fire escape, now empty, then back at Nabandian.
“Drop the fucking gun! Police! Drop the—”
Gunshots rang out. Five, six. The man smashed back against the glass and fell over the sill, his head and chest outside, his legs in the room, twitching.
Nabandian looked around.
“How many times were you going to tell him to drop it, George?” said Engels. “Were you going to wait till he killed you?”
Nabandian didn’t say a word. He was frozen, trembling.
The man’s legs had stopped twitching. Engels approached him cautiously, gun held at the ready. He leaned out the window and felt at his neck for a pulse.
“He’s dead.”
“There was another one,” said Nabandian. “He went down the escape.”
Engels looked at the street. A small knot of people had gathered below. He couldn’t see anyone running. He looked back at his partner. “You okay?”
Nabandian nodded. He came to the window and looked down at the dead man. He was sandy-haired, with a small, pinched nose and a couple of days of stubble on his chin.
“You recognize him?” said Engels.
Nabandian shook his head.
“Neither do I. What the fuck was he doing here? You think they killed her?”
Nabandian opened the wardrobes in the bedroom, looking for a body. Engels checked under the bed. He looked in the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain to see if there was anything in the bathtub.
They went into the living room. Against one of the walls stood a long wooden chest.
The detectives glanced at each other. It was big enough for a corpse if the limbs were bent.
Nabandian stepped forward. He lifted the lid.
There was a noise behind them. Both cops spun, guns aimed.
“Drop the bag! Drop the fucking bag!” yelled Engels.
A small woman stood in the opening where the door to the apartment had once been, carrying a big multicolored bag. She stared in shock.
“Drop the fucking bag!”
She dropped it.
“Put your hands on your head!”
She raised her hands.
Engels approached her, gun still aimed. He pushed her against a wall and searched her quickly. Then he stepped back. “Who are you?”
“Rose Bridges,” she whispered, still facing the wall.
“Who?”
“Rose Bridges.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m Emmy Bridges’s mother.”
Nabandian had opened her bag and found her driver’s license. “You can turn around, Mrs. Bridges.”
Rose turned. Her face was pale.
“We’re police,” said Nabandian. “I’m Detective Nabandian and this is Detective Engels. I’m sorry if we gave you a fright.”
“What’
s happened?” said Rose. “Where’s Emmy?”
“We don’t know.”
“Is she all right?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
53
“You should go out,” said Emmy. “Go on. It’ll be fine.”
“He might call.”
“Rob, it’s ten-thirty. He’s not going to call. Anyway, I’ll stay. If he calls, I’ll answer it.”
Rob looked at her doubtfully.
She laughed. “Go!”
He had been cooped up in the hotel room all day, waiting for Bassett’s call. Nothing to do but watch cruddy British TV while he waited. Emmy had been out to get food. He said he didn’t want much. She had brought him back snacks, muesli bars and corn chips, but now he was hungry and a little stir-crazy. And Bassett wasn’t going to call now, Emmy was right. Besides, she could take the call.
“I won’t be long,” he said.
“Take your time.”
“Lock the door behind me.”
“Yes, Mr. Paranoid.”
Rob looked at her seriously. “Lock it.”
“Of course I will.”
He went down the stairs. The reception desk was deserted. The night clerk must be doing something, he thought. He wondered if it was the same guy as the night before. He let himself out. The night was cool. He took a deep breath. It felt good to be outside.
He walked away to find somewhere to eat.
* * *
The night clerk, Waldemar, slouched in a chair in the room behind the reception desk. The room had a small table and a portable TV. There were dirty mugs and an ashtray full of ashes and cigarette stubs on the table. The TV was on, grainily showing an episode of CSI Miami. A suspect was being interrogated. Waldemar watched with a frown of concentration, trying to follow the dialogue.
The night bell rang.
Waldemar watched the interrogation on the TV for a moment longer, then got up to answer the door. Outside was a young man with a thick shock of blond hair.
“This is … Boston Hotel?” said the man in heavily accented, halting English.
“No,” said Waldemar. “Is Bartlett.”
“Boston?”
“Bartlett.” Waldemar pointed to the name gilded on the glass of the door. “Bartlett.”
“Where is Boston?” asked the man.
“I don’t know,” said Waldemar. “What you speak? You speak Polish? Czy mówisz po polsku? German? Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
“Boston. I want Boston.”
Waldemar shook his head. “Not Boston. Bartlett. What you speak?”
“Where is station?” asked the man.
“Station? Paddington?”
The man nodded quickly. “Friend … I meet…”
“You meet friend at station?” said Waldemar. “At Paddington Station?”
“Yes! Yes! Very good. Where is?”
“Go to corner,” said Waldemar. “Then left. You see station.”
“Left?”
“Left.”
“Where is left?”
“Left!” said Waldemar. “Left!”
“You show.” The man pulled on Waldemar’s elbow. “You show.”
“At corner. Left.”
“You show. Please. You show.” The man was backing down the stairs.
Waldemar sighed. “All right. I show.”
He went down the stairs. He pointed toward the corner in the darkness. “There. Left!” he said, and he waved his hand to the left.
The blond-haired man looked up the street, then looked back at him, frowning.
“Left!” said Waldemar. “There!”
The man peered up the street. He took a few more steps, pulling the night clerk with him away from the steps to the hotel.
Waldemar shook his head in exasperation. He pointed, jabbing his hand toward the corner. “There! See? There!”
“There?” said the man.
“There!” yelled Waldemar. He waved his hand toward the left again. “Left!”
Behind Waldemar, a second man came out of the shadows in a doorway. The blond man saw him head up the steps to the open door of the Bartlett and disappear inside.
“Left! See? Left!”
“Left?” said the blond man to Waldemar.
“Left!” yelled Waldemar, still gesticulating.
“Ah? Left?” said the man, his face creasing in a big grin.
“Yes. This is what I say. Left!”
“There?”
“Yes! There! Left!”
The man grabbed Waldemar’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you. Station. There. Left.”
“Yes,” said Waldemar, pulling his hand away from the man.
“Thank you.”
“Is all right,” said Waldemar.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
“Is all right,” repeated Wally impatiently. “You go, find friend.”
“I find friend!” said the man, still grinning. He headed off down the street.
Waldemar watched until he went around the corner. Then the night clerk went back up the steps and closed the door behind him. He went back to the little room behind the reception desk.
“Ah,” he said in disgust, looking at the screen where the credits were rolling. “Is finished!”
Upstairs, Emmy heard a knock on the door.
She got up. There was another knock.
“Rob?” she said.
There was another knock.
“Who is it?” she demanded.
“I’m from downstairs,” said a voice on the other side of the door. “I’m looking for Mr. Holding.”
“Why?”
There was no reply.
“Did someone call?”
“Yes. Someone called.”
Emmy opened the door a fraction. The man outside was wearing an overcoat and gloves. It didn’t look as if he were one of the hotel staff. And suddenly she realized he wouldn’t have said he was looking for Mr. Holding. That wasn’t the name Rob had used when they checked in.
But it was too late. He pushed the door back, sending her stumbling, and then he was inside, jerking her up on her feet and slamming the door shut with a kick.
“Where is he?” he demanded.
“He’s not here.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“He’s not!”
The man shook her, hard, his fingers biting into her arm. “When?”
“He’s gone.”
“Is he?” The man flung her onto the bed. He pulled out a gun from under his coat. The pistol had a silencer on the end. Pointing the gun at her, he sat down on the chair behind the door.
“He’s not coming back,” said Emmy.
“Really? Well, I might just wait and see for meself, eh?”
54
Rob bit into the hamburger. It was his second. He had eaten the first one in about four bites, hardly even tasting it as it turned to pap in his mouth. Later on, he knew, he’d feel sick and regret it, as he always did after he ate at McDonald’s. But he had been too hungry to care. All he’d had during the day were snacks. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until he got out of the hotel. Maybe it was the night air that had done it. The McDonald’s was open and it was familiar, and it was the first place combining those two qualities that he had found after leaving the hotel, so he went right in and ordered big. Two Big Macs, two large fries, and a large Coke.
There weren’t many people in the restaurant. A large black guy was sprawled in one of the booths. A couple of kids in hooded sweatshirts were huddled together over a mobile phone. An Indian couple came in and Rob watched them go to the counter and order.
Rob took another bite out of the burger. The first one was already starting to sit heavy in his stomach. He took a big handful of fries and stuffed them in his mouth.
He took a slurp on the Coke. He slowed down a little now, took a couple of fries, nibbled them thoughtfully. He wondered what had happened with Bassett. Maybe Bassett had called and they hadn’t put him throu
gh. Anything could happen in a place like that. Or maybe the secretary hadn’t given him the message. He could try again tomorrow. But what if the secretary had given Bassett the message and he hadn’t called? Say he’d chosen not to call. Say he wasn’t going to call, or refused to meet him? What was plan B?
Rob took a bite out of the burger. He had no plan B.
He finished the burger, then the fries. They were cold now, but he ate them anyway. He looked around at the other people in the restaurant. What could be more depressing than eating in a McDonald’s late at night? One of the staff members was mopping the floor in a closed-off section of seating. Looked about sixteen. Rob watched him.
He’d try again tomorrow, he thought. And tomorrow he wouldn’t just wait all day. Mr. Bassett might need a little hassling. Maybe even a little doorstopping. That, he decided, was plan B. Emmy could come with him. Two doorstoppers would be better than one.
Maybe not. Bassett still might call. Maybe Emmy should wait by the phone.
He left the restaurant. He didn’t go back directly. He walked around the streets for a while, enjoying the cool freshness of the night air. Eventually he started to feel cold and headed back. He rang the bell and waited, peering through the glass panel at the reception desk at the end of the hall.
The night clerk came to the door. He grinned as he opened it.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” said Rob.
“You are again late today.”
“Yeah,” said Rob. He went inside.
“And the Mrs. Smith?” said Wally, closing the door and following him up the hall. “She is not here?”
“No, she’s upstairs.”
“Ah, what you do today? You see London?”
Rob stopped at the foot of the stairs, hand on the banister. He shook his head. “What about you? You study?”
Waldemar nodded.
“How do you study if you’re up all night?”
“I not up all night.” Waldemar winked.
“You sleep?”
“In chair.”
Rob chuckled.
Waldemar shrugged, then laughed as well.
“How long you been in this job?” asked Rob.
“Two months.” Waldemar held up two fingers. “The man before, he stay two weeks.”
“That good, huh?”
Waldemar laughed again.
Rob turned to the stairs.
“You go tomorrow?” asked Waldemar.
Due Diligence: A Thriller Page 40