He took the stairs down and went out the door and hooked a hard left. A mail truck idled at the curb. Coburn lengthened his stride. The arch came into view between buildings. He kept his eyes down and his hands at his sides.
He crossed the street and entered the park from the west. He followed the path as it curved south and east and walked straight to the trashcan.
Coburn immediately felt a small sense of relief because it didn’t look like the can had been dumped. A gray cloud moved just above the rim. The cloud buzzed. Flies, feeding on a spilled carton of uneaten Chinese takeout. Coburn saw the mound of noodles and sweet and sour sauce. The carton of food had been dropped on top. It had spoiled in the heat and attracted the flies. Ants would follow soon enough if it were not collected in a timely manner. Below the food carton, he saw newspapers and soft drink cups.
Coburn moved his hands through the flies.
He heard a siren blare and casually glanced up and saw an NYPD black and white pulling over someone in a convertible. He watched the officers get out and approach the car. It was a routine traffic stop, but he could see them, so obviously they could see him. Coburn turned his back to them and leaned forward, bracing a forearm against the rim of the can. He reached in and plucked a chopstick from the sweet and sour ooze. He used it to comb through the upper layers of garbage.
If the card was still inside the can, it was buried deeper than he’d expected. He raked with the chopstick into the open end of a vodka bottle and lifted it out of the way. Still no sign of the business card. He balanced the bottle lengthwise across the rim of the can and glanced again at the cops and the convertible.
The chopstick snapped under the weight of the Vodka bottle, which skidded off the rim of the can and dropped to the ground. The top half shattered on impact and the bottom half rolled in a lazy semi-circle across the gritty pavement.
One of the cops turned at the sound of the breaking glass. He’d been standing on the opposite side of the convertible and now stared straight at Coburn.
Coburn saw the white card was stuck to the bottom of the Vodka bottle, centered perfectly in the disk of glass. He swatted at a swarm of flies orbiting his face and backed away from the trashcan.
The cop on the passenger side of the convertible started around the front fender, eyes locked on Coburn. His mouth was moving. He was saying something to his partner.
The bottom part of the bottle had rolled to a stop ten feet away. Coburn reached down and scooped it up, trapping the business card under his index finger.
Coburn didn’t wait for the cops to become more curious. He took the vodka bottle and hurried away.
38
The bottom of the vodka bottle was sticky with something colorless and gummy. Coburn picked at an edge of the business card with his fingernails, careful not to tear it. He shoved it into his pocket and made a big counter-clockwise circle around the block.
Coburn returned to the university building and the fourth floor window. The lecture had ended and the classroom was empty. He took the card out of his pocket. The trace of perfume was gone.
He held the card in his hand at his side as he stood staring out the window with his shoulder against the wall. The day was clear and bright. The hallway was warm. Budget restraints probably limited the air conditioning. That would make spending an hour or more in the early part of the fall semester and late part of the spring semester uncomfortable.
Coburn stared into the sunshine and wondered about Heather. Who was she? And why was she was with Brian Ripley that night? His eyes tracked across the park. How had the card gotten in the trash can? He thought it had probably fallen from her purse when she went to the ground after the initial gunshot to her head. Then the wind would have caught it, and over the next seven hours or so it had spun and skittered and floated a few inches at a time until completely at random, the breeze had lifted it off the ground enough to snag one corner in a gap in the mesh of the trashcan.
The card was a curious thing. There was no personal information at all. No name. No business name. No email address. There was nothing except the phone number.
Why?
Coburn heard movement behind him.
Two young women appeared at the top of the stairs. Students. They were talking and laughing. One of them had a small pack slung over her shoulder, and the other had a purse. The girl with the purse had a cell phone to her ear. Her hair was golden blond and held up with a plastic clip. They turned toward Coburn but neither girl seemed to notice him. They were probably early for class or maybe one of them had left something behind earlier in the day and had returned to retrieve it.
The girls paused at a closed door. It was the second door on the right. The girl with the pack put her nose to the narrow vertical window inset in the door. Her friend on the phone glanced down the length of the hall and saw Coburn. She locked on his face and stared for a moment.
Coburn offered a friendly nod. The girl tweaked her mouth into a small smile before diverting her eyes to the floor between her feet. The girl with the pack opened the door and they both disappeared inside. Coburn could still hear them. One minute passed, then another.
Coburn inspected the card again, and ran through the possible scenarios of the kind of person Heather might have been. He held the card in his hand and flicked the corner with his thumb. The sun moved out from behind the buildings across the street and Coburn squinted against the glare. A third student, a kid with shaggy hair and poor posture, came up the stairs and went into the classroom.
Coburn moved away from the window and considered the phone number on the front of the card and its 212 area code. The number might have belonged to her cell phone. She would have kept it in her purse, and her purse had either been dumped in the trash, stolen, or recovered by the police during their search of the murder scene. Coburn figured Detective O’Shannon likely had the contents of her purse sealed in an evidence bag and stored away in a file cabinet. He nearly grinned at the thought of dialing the number and O’Shannon scrambling to figure out where the ringing was coming from. It would drive the man crazy.
What if the cell phone had been stolen? Or maybe Smith had taken it after killing her. Maybe he still had it. It was an intriguing thought. Coburn decided to find out.
Coburn stood in the open classroom door. The three students sat on the opposite side of the room. The kid with the shaggy hair sat alone, head down on his desk, arms in his lap, eyes closed. The two girls were huddled at their desks in the front corner of the room. The blonde with the purse had shut her cell and laid it near the edge of the desk. The girl with the pack looked past her friend’s shoulder and noticed Coburn. He saw them whisper. One of them frowned, which made her friend’s eyes go wide and her smile bigger.
“Lost?” The girl with the pack asked.
Coburn smiled. “Maybe.”
“Looking for someone?”
“Yes and no.”
“Are you a student?” one of the girls asked.
The question and its tone drew a burst of laughter from her friend.
“I wish. Nothing easier than having to sit and listen.”
“You can have it,” said the girl with the purse, her back to the door.
Coburn smiled again and shrugged. The girls were freshmen, sophomores at best, and still wet behind the ears. They had spent their entire short lives in school with no real-life experience at all.
“I’m looking for my cell. I was up here earlier and thought I might have set it down,” he lied. “Did you see an iPhone when you came in?”
The girls exchanged a look, then each in turn shook her head no.
“Sorry, man,” the girl with the pack said.
Coburn twisted his mouth and chewed on his lip. “Damn.”
“Expecting a call?”
“I need to make a call. My whole life is on that thing. My little girl is at daycare and I need to call the school and tell them not to worry if I’m late.”
The girl with the pack made a pained, sad
face at the blonde. “Awwwww. That’s so sad.”
“No doubt.”
Coburn turned his shoulders in the doorway.
“Anyway, spread the word. Ask people to leave it downstairs if anyone finds it.” He braced a hand against the doorjamb.
The girl with the pack made a face at her friend. “Let him borrow your phone. His little girl will be freaked out.”
The blonde scrunched her nose. “Yeah, I guess.”
The girl with the pack called to Coburn. “Dude, hold up a sec!”
She grabbed the blonde’s cell phone and popped up out of her seat. She trotted up the aisle and hurried across the back of the room to the open door. Coburn had turned back at the sound of her voice.
“Make your call,” she said, holding out her friend’s cell in her open hand.
“You sure it’s not a problem?”
“Don’t sweat it. She has unlimited minutes. Besides, her parents pay the bill.” She offered a subtle wink, and lifted the phone higher, pressing it flat against his chest.
“Thanks. I’ll only be a minute.”
He took the cell with a smile. She offered her own bright flirtatious smile, well practiced and fantastic, and spun away on her heels.
Coburn dialed the number from the business card as he hurried to the window. The cell’s display showed plenty of reception bars. He punched in all ten digits then hit SEND.
The call rang and he waited to hear Heather’s outgoing voicemail recording. A thief was unlikely to answer it. If O’Shannon answered, Coburn would simply end the call, and if O’Shannon called back, Coburn would be long gone.
But O’Shannon didn’t answer and neither did a thief.
He heard the line click and a woman’s voice was in his ear.
“Metropolitan Nights,” she said.
Coburn was caught off guard. The call had been answered on the second ring. He hadn’t expected it to be answered at all.
“Hello?” she said.
Coburn scrambled for words.
“Hi,” he said, and felt like a dolt.
“Metropolitan Nights,” she said again. “Are you calling for an appointment?”
“Uh. . .” Again, no words.
“Were you referred?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did someone refer you to our agency?”
“I’m looking for Heather,” he replied, finally getting his brain working.
There was a brief hesitation.
“Could you hold?”
“Sure.”
Coburn heard a click, then soft Muzak filled the line.
A half minute later she was back.
“Um, Heather is not available. Would you like to request someone else?”
Coburn resisted the human impulse to stutter as his brain scrambled to make sense of the conversation.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“What is your preference? Blond? Brunette?”
Coburn shut his eyes and shook his head slowly. It was an escort service. Had Heather been a hooker? He didn’t want to believe it.
“When will Heather be available?”
“Sir, we have other redheads, if that’s what you like. Have you visited our Web site?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I’d be happy to email you some photos.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Are you needing a girl for tonight?”
Coburn wasn’t immediately certain how to answer.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how can I help you then?”
“Can you put me in touch with Heather?”
“Sir, that’s not possible.”
“It’s very important that I speak to her.”
“Heather is not available, so unless you want to reserve another girl, I’m going to end this call.”
Coburn turned and looked down the hall. A few more students were straggling in. So far the call had lasted about 90 seconds. He needed to return the cell to the cute little blonde at her desk.
He thought about Heather from the bar and Heather in the bag at the morgue. Something didn’t add up. Maybe she was a prostitute, but she hadn’t been dressed for a night of business. The jeans and T-shirt told him she’d been off the clock. Whatever business she had with Ripley, it hadn’t been about sex.
“May I ask you a question?”
She hesitated. “I guess so.”
“This past Monday night, was Heather booked or was it her night off?”
Coburn heard a click, followed by the dial tone. She had hung up on him.
He glanced back toward the sounds of young people crowding into the classroom fifty feet away. The blonde would be getting impatient, waiting for her phone. He dialed the number again.
It rang once and the same girl answered.
“Metropolitan Nights,” she said.
“I’d like to reserve a girl for tonight.”
She went silent for a beat, no doubt instantly recognizing his voice from a moment earlier.
“Will this be your first experience using our agency?”
“Yes.”
“Was this a referral?”
“No.”
“Have you visited our Web site?”
“No.”
“That’s fine. Do you have a preference?”
“Not at all.”
“All I need is a major credit card to hold the reservation.”
Coburn knew his cards by memory and he gave her a fifteen-digit Visa number.
“Very good,” she said.
There was silence on the line as she keyed his information into her computer.
“How does 8 p.m. sound?”
“Eight sounds fine,” he said. It would be nearly dark in the city and that was good, but it also meant a long wait.
“Addison is available. I think you’ll be very pleased with her. I can email a photo if you’d like.”
“That’s not necessary. I trust you.”
“She’s a blonde.”
“That’s fine. It really doesn’t matter.”
“She’ll meet you in the lobby of the W Hotel on Lexington at eight sharp.”
“The W, right.”
“You can’t miss her. She’ll make every other woman in the place look like a handbag.”
Coburn thought about his credit card and the fact that this little rendezvous wasn’t going to be free.
“How much will this cost me?”
“Two thousand an hour.”
“Good to know.”
“She’s worth it. You’ll feel like a new man.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will.”
“Have a great evening, Mr. Coburn.”
“Thank you.”
“And thank you for choosing Metropolitan Nights.”
Coburn clapped the cell shut.
The blond co-ed was leaning out the door. She made a small gesture with her hand. He handed her the phone.
“Did you get word to your little girl?”
“Everything is fine. You are a lifesaver.”
“I bet she’s a doll.”
He smiled. “My girl is a princess.”
“And I bet you’re a great dad.”
Coburn shrugged. “Sometimes.”
She looked over her shoulder, leaned toward him and whispered, “Class is starting.”
He nodded at the phone. “Thank you.”
“Forget about it.”
“Enjoy the lecture.”
She wrinkled her nose, “Gag!” Then she ducked away to her desk.
Coburn pocketed the business card and took the stairs down to the street. His eyes adjusted to the bright outdoors as he jogged past a chubby woman in an apron hosing off the sidewalk. He wanted to find a quiet place to sit and think since he had a few hours to kill. He thought about the cute little blonde upstairs and the blonde named Addison. He wondered what his ex-wife would say if she knew he’d hired a prostitute.
39
The patio doors were ope
ned and the guests enjoyed the ocean and the burnished sky at sunset while they exchanged gossip and poured more wine. Folston had been gone for hours.
Kyle Taubman cornered Armstrong.
“What is your theory on Caspian?” he asked.
Armstrong met his eyes, and then glanced away at a gull dipping to the waves.
“I think for the moment he is still a mystery man, but I’m confident he is the key to finding Al-Islam.”
“I’m afraid I don’t share your confidence.”
Armstrong had grown accustomed to Taubman’s pessimism.
“My source in Washington has a very different opinion,” Armstrong replied. His source was a former NSA analyst who was now employed as a mid-level bureaucrat on Capitol Hill.
“Based on what?” Taubman asked.
“Based on the accounts the girl provided.”
“I’m uncomfortable exposing this to anyone in Washington.”
“I trust him. We share a long history.”
“We agreed to keep this contained. The Feds will shut us down us if we get sloppy. They want Al-Islam as badly as we do, and they need the publicity. They already let bin Laden slip through their hands. The public has lost all confidence in them. I’m going to be pissed if they take what we’ve found and exploit it and leave us by the side of the road.”
“My source has nothing to gain by leaking this. He’s eighteen months from retirement. He’s good and he knows what to look for. He says what I showed him is the real thing.”
They were standing on the patio. The pines and firs on the shoreline of the mainland stood silhouetted against the evening sky in the distance. Lights from passing aircraft winked red amid scattered clouds high above. The evening was mild but a breeze off the water brought with it a slight chill.
“What did they do with the girl?” Taubman asked.
Armstrong shook his head.
“They aren’t saying much of anything about the girl anymore. As far as Folston is concerned she gave us Caspian and is of little use to us anymore.”
“That makes me uncomfortable. We’ve invested millions of dollars in her. Not to mention what we’ve paid Folston and his team of goons, and we’re not done spending yet.”
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