Then he noticed the brown sedan parked at the curb farther up the sidewalk. Detective O’Shannon’s car. It sat idle in a pool of amber light from a street lamp. Coburn slid a step to his left and leaned out and tilted his head, but he couldn’t make out whether anyone was inside. O’Shannon was working late again. Coburn leaned closer to the glass so that he could see the apartment building better.
Lights were on and drapes and blinds were closed. He spotted an open window three floors up with a potted plant on the ledge. His view was distorted by the reddish hue. Addison had written apartment 6J on his palm. He studied the sixth floor. Sabrina might be behind one of those windows.
Most of the windows on the street side of the apartment building were dark. Two had lights on. One was a dim glow, like a lamp in a far corner of the room. The other had blinds down but open and an overhead fixture was blazing.
Coburn stepped out the door, and then he pulled back. The door to the walkup across the street opened and Detective O’Shannon emerged, followed closely by Weaver. Coburn stood with his face mostly hidden behind the painted red door jam. The detectives drove away in the unmarked sedan. A few seconds later, the black and white peeled away from the curb, made a wide U-turn in the middle of the street, and accelerated in the opposite direction. Coburn waited a full five minutes before crossing the street. He did a double-take in both directions before entering the building. The glass door sighed shut behind him on a pneumatic arm. He stood in a tiny foyer.
He took the stairs and found 6J. The thin strip under the door was dark. Music was coming from an apartment down the hall. Coburn heard ice rattling in a blender. Someone was putting the day behind them. He wondered how many of Courtney Swisher’s former neighbors knew she’d been shot in the head and left for dead in the park a few blocks away. Word would probably spread now that the cops had paid a visit.
Coburn knocked and waited. A full minute passed and there was no answer. He raised his fist to knock again, but the door opened against the chain. The apartment was dark inside. A voice hissed through the gap.
“Go away.”
“Sabrina?”
“I’ve had enough cops for one night.”
“I’m not a cop.”
There was still no part of her face visible. Just two inches of chain pulled taut.
“Fine. Good. Go away.”
“My name is Coburn.”
She was silent a beat.
“I don’t know you.”
“That’s right.”
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk to you about your sister.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You might want to hear what I have to say.”
She went quiet. Coburn thought he could hear her breathing. The breathing sounded low and steady but ragged, like she’d been crying.
Coburn waited a long minute.
“Sabrina?”
“What part of get lost don’t you understand, man?”
“Please open the door.”
No reply.
“I saw your sister the night she was murdered.”
“Did you know her?”
“No.”
“How did you find me?”
“I spoke to Addison.”
“Addison?”
“At your sister’s agency.”
There was another extended silence, punctuated by muted sobs. He could feel the pulse of music through the floor.
“Why do you care about me or my sister?”
“I don’t have a good answer for that, except that she was murdered and I’d like to help.”
“Yeah? How do you expect to be of any help to me?”
“I think I know who killed her.”
She pushed the door shut and Coburn heard the rattle of the chain against the wood trim, then suddenly the door opened wide.
44
Sabrina Swisher stood framed in blackness. Her jet black hair had fallen down over her face. She wore an emerald green silk robe that stopped mid-thigh. A tattoo of a viper started at her calf and twisted up her leg, disappearing under the robe. The nails on all ten fingers were chewed to nubs, painted black and scratched. He could see only the whites of her eyes through the twists of her hair. She was holding a gun. A big black thing. Her hand looked tiny holding it. If she fired it, it would have knocked her off her feet.
“You won’t need that,” he said. He followed her inside. Sabrina set the gun down on the kitchen countertop. She unsteadily pushed a hand through her hair. She was well on her way to a good drunk. She shifted, trying to balance.
“I’m very sorry about your sister,” he said.
“It’s all beautiful,” she said, the emerald silk robe shimmering in the lamplight. “I’m way over it already. Just needed a moment to process.” She poured a glass of Vodka and took a drink. “How do you know who killed my sister?”
“I was in the wrong place at the right time Monday night,” he said, “and I stumbled into the middle of something. Now your sister is dead and I’m in a lot of trouble.”
“Tell me who killed her.”
“His name is Brian Ripley.”
“I need another drink.” She took a step back and almost fell.
Coburn caught her and steadied her. “We need to get some coffee in you.”
She pressed a hand to her forehead.
“Change into some clothes,” Coburn said. “You need fresh air.”
Sabrina nodded. She walked unsteadily into her bedroom and left the door wide open. The robe fell from her shoulders into a silky pile at her feet. There was nothing underneath. Coburn had never seen a more spectacular body.
45
“The police think I killed her.”
Sabrina gave her head a quick little shake to one side to clear the hair from her face. She studied his eyes.
“What would give them that impression?”
“Circumstances,” Coburn answered. “Like I said, right place at the wrong time. And one other little detail.”
“What’s that?”
“They believe Brian Ripley is dead.”
“Dude, you’ve so lost me.”
Coburn glanced away and then back.
“That’s what the computer tells them, that he’s been dead the past fifteen years.”
They were seated at a table inside a vegan cafe on a street a few blocks from her apartment. It was a too hip and trendy for its own good. Coburn figured they’d be out of business in eighteen months, probably replaced by a burger joint. Sabrina had a cup of organic tea. She had bought Coburn a coffee. The coffee was fantastic and had cost five dollars. Sabrina sipped the hot tea, her slim hands laced around the paper cup. She wore a red tank and shredded jeans and heavy Doc Martin boots. For a moment she was lost in thought.
When she had disrobed Coburn had seen the rest of the viper tattoo. It wound its way between her thighs and across her flat tummy, ending just beneath the mound of her left breast. The viper’s mouth was open as its forked tongue enjoyed a taste of flawless skin. Her black hair had streaks of red, evidence that the black was from a bottle.
She didn’t look at him for several long minutes.
“Courtney was the only family I had left,” she said at last, as the herbs calmed her. “She was my big sister by two minutes. Our dad jumped from a window when I was barely old enough to walk and mom never got over it. She got heavy into drugs and needles and men.”
“She’s dead?”
Sabrina nodded.
“What happened?”
“AIDS. She didn’t even fight it. I think she was actually relieved to have a ticket out.”
“How long has she been gone?”
She shrugged. “Ten years.”
Coburn eased back in the narrow wooden chair and placed a forearm against the edge of the table.
“Courtney made good money doing what she did, I guess. That was Addison’s story anyway.”
“Addison is a shark.”
“Were they friends? Courtne
y and Addison?”
“Courtney didn’t have friends. She wasn’t big on relationships.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Over the years, but she didn’t need them. She got enough sex getting paid by the hour. I was the only friend she wanted.”
“How was she on money?”
She shrugged. “She didn’t spend it, that’s for sure. Clothes were her only real weakness. But still, I’m sure she put some away for a rainy day.”
“Was there debt? Did she gamble?”
Sabrina glared at him. “No way.”
“This guy I saw her with is bad news, and he didn’t come alone. He brought other men with him. They did this to my face. I’m trying to understand what she was doing, why she had gone there to meet him.”
She raised the cup to her lips, then lowered it without taking a drink. “That was a weird day.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Just a weird vibe. She was gone when I woke up, which isn’t out of the ordinary, but I felt whatever it was the instant I opened my eyes. It was the middle of the afternoon and I just kind of woke up in a funk. I called her cell and it went directly to voicemail. Then I dressed and went to work and got over it. No big deal.”
“Sisterly instincts?”
“Whatever.” The shock was beginning to lift. She was battling through her grief.
Her cell phone rang and she put it to her ear, answered, and listened for a moment.
“What was that about?” Coburn asked.
“The cops are back. My neighbor spotted them staking out the street. They’re watching the building. It’s so jacked up.”
“They don’t care about you. Detective O’Shannon is smart enough to figure out I might want to talk to you. They have to figure I’ll pay you a visit.”
“We can’t go back there.”
Coburn nodded once. “I know.”
“I’ve lived in this city my entire life. The first lesson you learn is how to avoid the police. I know every square inch of this island.”
“Do you believe me?”
“What, that you know who killed her or that you didn’t kill her yourself?”
“Both.”
“Somehow you don’t strike me as the murdering kind.”
“That’s only half an answer.”
“You are asking if I think you’re a nutcase?”
“In so many words.”
“Let me think about it,” she said.
46
Smith broke three diamond-tipped bits drilling out the internal locks. The cabinet was an impressive piece. He used canned air to clear the metal shavings and wore latex gloves to touch the first drawer. There was no visible exterior handle. Smith spread his fingertips against the drawer and pressed. The latch released and the drawer kicked out a fraction of an inch.
Smith set the drill aside and used both hands to open the drawer. It glided silently on ball bearings. Miller held a light so they could see better. Smith eased forward in his squat. He used the canned air to clear away any additional metal shavings that had vibrated out from the freshly augured holes.
He lifted out a laptop encased in rubber armor and carried it by its handle to the kitchen. He set it flat on the granite countertop, popped the latches, and opened it so that he could see the screen and keyboard. Miller stood beside him.
Smith touched the power button and the machine began the boot process. The operating system completed its initialization and a login window appeared. It required a user ID and password.
Miller glanced at the screen, then at Smith. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s going to be a long night.”
• • •
The flight left Zurich on schedule. It was a commercial flight and fully booked. There was a storm visible on radar but the tower had seen no reason to delay takeoff. It was well after dark when the airliner turned toward New York and leveled out at cruising altitude.
Caspian was seated in first class. The seat beside him was empty because he had purchased it also. He preferred privacy and despised casual conversation. He always bought all the seats in his row. It was his personal travel policy. His overhead reading light was on. Thomas Friedman’s latest hardcover was open in his lap but he wasn’t reading. His mind was lingering on the details of the past week in Switzerland. It had been a busy few days.
A stewardess served Caspian bourbon. He clicked off the reading light and watched Europe flow beneath them through a purple river of clouds. The plane bumped through turbulence. He looked forward to returning to New York. It felt like he’d been away forever. He swirled his drink in the glass, listening to the ice and staring out the window at the night. His eyes were half closed but he watched the lovely Nordic stewardess disappear through the cockpit door and wondered if she planned to give the pilot a little treat.
47
“Follow me.”
Coburn nodded and stuck so close to Sabrina’s backside he could smell her hair.
The dance floor was packed with sweating, writhing bodies. Music pulsed. Sabrina slithered through the crowd like an eel through the waters of a cool green sea. She didn’t take his hand or slow to make sure he didn’t get lost or dragged down. She was one of them. This was her world.
Together they had twisted through the streets of lower Manhattan, descending deeper and deeper into an alternate universe. Distant lights glowed green and red through a haze of pot smoke. Coburn’s eyes worked hard to adjust as he shouldered through narrow passages and heroin dens. He’d seen no trace of the sky in hours. Sabrina had taken him underground.
They went through a metal door that opened into an abandoned subway tunnel. The discombobulating base of the club music dropped the instant the door slammed behind them. Motes of dust floated in the dim light that streamed through cast iron grates in the ceiling. There was the sound of traffic roaring by overhead and headlights flickering across the bars of the street grates. The tunnel trailed off into darkness. The platform was layered in grime and grit that crunched underfoot. The subway rails were black snakes rendered useless by a metro system that had moved on. Coburn heard a fluttering of wings and saw a pair of bats dart upward through the gloom.
He followed Sabrina down the length of the platform and then up two levels of concrete stairs. There was no light at all. He followed her through a wide corridor with a tile floor.
“Are you taking me to meet the Dungeon Master?” Coburn said.
“That was almost funny.”
They went up another flight of stairs and Coburn followed her through a restroom door.
It was a public restroom with a single fluorescent bulb in a wire cage bolted to the crumbling plaster. There were no mirrors or sinks. All the fixtures had been stripped, leaving crude holes in the cinder block walls. The light flickered, throwing weird shadows across the floor tiles and toilet stalls.
The door to the last stall on the right was closed, held in place by a length of wire threaded around a roofing nail. Sabrina unhooked the wire from the nail and swung the door inward on its hinges. Then she stepped aside to let him pass. Coburn saw that the toilet was completely gone and a massive hole two foot wide and five feet high had been punched through the wall. The cinder block had been knocked in and cleared away to expose a dark cavity.
“Turn left,” she said.
Coburn angled his shoulders to fit through and stepped into the cavity. The passage was narrow. Coburn kept his shoulders turned and placed one foot directly in front of the other, like he was walking on a tight rope. He only traveled about five paces before emerging into an open room. Sabrina stepped up beside him.
“Welcome to the garden,” she said.
The room was 40 feet by 20 and filled with tables covered with rigid, plastic trays. The tables were long, with folding legs. Coburn counted six rows of tables, with a narrow walking lane between each. Each plastic tray held half a dozen leafy green plants.
Cannabis, Coburn thought.
There were
tables against every inch of wall except for the opening where Coburn and Sabrina stood. There was a closed door on the opposite side of the room. The room smelled of damp, fertile soil. Green plastic sheeting was stapled to the walls and ceiling, and the plants were fed with artificial light from dozens of lamps with red bulbs. The room was simply a marijuana farm. Coburn looked around impressed and intrigued and stunned.
“I’m catching a buzz just standing here,” he said.
“Clover grows the best weed on the East Coast,” Sabrina said.
“Clover?”
Sabrina nodded. “This is her garden.”
“It’s a good looking crop.”
“She’s been growing here for twenty years.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Clover is a legend.”
“Incredible. Does she have help?”
“Hell no.”
“Incredible,” he said again.
“This is a closely guarded secret. Clover will not be happy I brought you here.”
“I’m going to meet her?”
“Absolutely. You are already hiding from the cops, and if the cops have spent twenty years looking for Clover’s pot farm and can’t find it, they’ll never find you here.”
• • •
Clover lived in a loft apartment several floors above the garden, in a former factory building that had been converted into residential units forty years earlier. Coburn and Sabrina took the elevator to the top and Sabrina pulled the gate open and used the intercom next to the door to tell her friend she had company. They heard a series of deadbolts turn and the door opened and a pretty girl of maybe fifteen greeted Sabrina with a fist bump.
“Hottie alert,” the girl said, her eyes on Coburn. She had a nose ring and dark Goth makeup.
Coburn decided there was probably a cute young lady hidden somewhere underneath all the obvious teen angst.
“How’s your mom?” Sabrina asked.
“Old and getting older.”
“Sweet.”
“She’s on the phone. She’ll be off in a sec. Want a beer?”
“I’m good,” Sabrina said.
The girl turned to Coburn. “How about you, Mr. Stranger Danger? Would you like an alcoholic beverage?” She said it like a housewife from a 1950’s sitcom.
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