Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217)

by Deaver, Jeffery

  “What happened?”

  “Killed in a robbery, I heard.”

  “When?”

  “Early November. Something like that.”

  “Who’d he see at the St. James?”

  “He was in the back room some is all I know.”

  “Did they know each other?” A nod toward Creeley’s picture.

  The woman shrugged and eyed her hamburger. She pulled the bun off, spread a little mayonnaise on it and struggled with the ketchup lid. Sachs opened it for her.

  “Who was he?” the policewoman asked.

  “Businessman. Looked like a bridge-and-tunnel guy. But I heard he lived in Manhattan and had money. They were Gucci jeans he wore. I never talked to him except to take his order.”

  “How’d you find out about his death?”

  “Overheard something. Them talking.”

  “The officers from the precinct?”

  She nodded.

  “Any other deaths that you heard of?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any other crimes? Shakedowns, assaults, bribes?”

  She shook her head, pouring ketchup on the burger and making a pool for dunking the fries. “Nothing. That’s all I know.”

  “Thanks.” Sachs put ten down on the table to cover the woman’s meal.

  Gerte glanced at the money. “The desserts’re pretty good. The pie. You ever eat here, have the pie.”

  The detective added another five.

  Gerte looked up and gave an astute smile. “Why’m I telling you all this stuff? You’re wondering, right?”

  Sachs nodded with a smile. She’d been wondering exactly that.

  “You wouldn’t understand. Those guys in the back room, the cops? The way they look at us, Sonja and me, the things they say, the things they don’t say. The way they joke about us when they think we can’t hear ’em . . .” She gave a bitter smile. “Yeah, I pour drinks for a living, okay? That’s all I do. But that don’t give ’em the right to make fun of me. Everybody’s got the right to some dignity, don’t they?”

  Joanne Harper, Vincent’s dream girl, had not returned to the workshop yet.

  The men were in the Band-Aid-mobile, parked on east Spring Street across from the darkened workshop where Duncan was about to kill his third victim and Vincent was about to have his first heart-to-heart in a long, long time.

  The SUV wasn’t anything great but it was safe. The Watchmaker had stolen it from someplace where he said it wouldn’t be missed for a while. It also sported New York plates that’d been stolen from another tan Explorer—to pass an initial call-in by the cops if they happened to get spotted (they rarely checked the VIN number, only plates, the Watchmaker lectured Vincent).

  That was smart, Vincent allowed, though he’d asked what they’d do if some cop did check the VIN. It wouldn’t match the tag and he’d know the Explorer was stolen.

  Duncan had replied, “Oh, I’d kill him.” As if it was obvious.

  Moving right along . . .

  Duncan looked at his pocket watch and replaced it, zipped up the pocket. He opened his shoulder bag, which contained the clock and other tools of the trade, all carefully organized. He wound the clock, set the time and zipped the cover of the bag closed. Through the nylon, Vincent could hear the ticking.

  They hooked up hands-free headsets to their mobile phones and Vincent set a police scanner on the seat next to him (Duncan’s idea, of course). He clicked it on and heard a mundane clatter of transmissions about traffic accidents, the progress of street closings for some event on Thursday, an apparent heart attack on Broadway, a chain snatching. . . .

  Life in da big city . . .

  Duncan looked himself over carefully, made sure all his pockets were sealed. He rolled a dog-hair remover over his body, to pick up trace evidence, and reminded Vincent to do the same before he came inside for his heart-to-heart with Joanne.

  Meticulous . . .

  “Ready?”

  Vincent nodded. Duncan climbed out of the Band-Aid-mobile, looked up and down the street, then walked to the service door. He picked the lock in about ten seconds. Amazing. Vincent smiled, admiring his friend’s skill. He ate two candy bars, chewed them down with fierce bites.

  A moment later the phone vibrated and he answered. Duncan said, “I’m inside. How’s the street look?”

  “A few cars from time to time. Nobody on the sidewalks. It’s clear.”

  Vincent heard a few metallic clicks. Then the man’s voice in a whisper: “I’ll call you when she’s ready.”

  Ten minutes later Vincent saw someone in a dark coat walking toward the workshop. The stance and motion suggested it was a woman. Yep, it was his flower girl, Joanne.

  A burst of hunger filled him.

  He ducked low, so she wouldn’t see him. He pushed the TRANSMIT button on the phone.

  He heard the click of Duncan’s phone. No “hello” or “yes.”

  Vincent lifted his head slightly and saw her walk up to the door. He said into the phone, “It’s her. She’s alone. She should be inside any minute.”

  The killer said nothing. Vincent heard the click of the phone hanging up.

  Okay, he was a keeper.

  Joanne Harper and Kevin had had three coffees at Kosmo’s Diner, otherwise just another functional, boring eatery in SoHo, but as of today a very special place. She was now walking to the back door of the workshop, reflecting that she wished she could have lingered for another half hour or so. Kevin had wanted to—there were more jokes to tell, more stories to share—but her job loomed. It wasn’t due till tomorrow night, but this was an important client and she needed to make sure the arrangements were perfect. She’d reluctantly told him she had to get back.

  She glanced up and down the street, still a bit uneasy about the pudgy man in the parka and the weird sunglasses. But the area was deserted. Stepping inside the workshop, she slammed the door and double-locked it.

  Hanging up her coat, Joanne inhaled deeply, the way she always did when she first walked inside, enjoying the myriad scents inside the shop: jasmine, rose, lilac, lily, gardenia, fertilizer, loam, mulch. It was intoxicating.

  She flicked on the lights and started toward the arrangements she’d been working on earlier. Then she froze and gave a scream.

  Her foot had struck something. It scurried away from her. She leapt back, thinking: Rat!

  But then she looked down and laughed. What she’d kicked was a large spool of florist wire in the center of the aisle. How had it gotten there? All of the spools hung from hooks on the wall nearby. She squinted through the dimness and saw that somehow this one had slipped off and rolled across the floor. Odd.

  Must be ghosts of florists past, she said to herself, then regretted the joke. The place was eerie enough and an image of the fat man in the sunglasses came back immediately. Don’t go spooking yourself.

  She picked up the spool and saw why it had fallen: the hook had slipped out of the wood. That’s all. But then she noticed something else curious. This spool was one of the new ones; she hadn’t used any wire from it yet, she thought. But she must have; some was missing.

  She laughed. Nothing like love to make a girl forgetful.

  Then she paused, cocking her head. She was listening to a sound she was unaccustomed to.

  What was it?

  Very odd . . . dripping water?

  No, it was mechanical. Metal . . .

  Weird. It sounded like a ticking clock. Where was it coming from? The workshop had a large wall clock in the back but it was electric and didn’t tick. Joanne looked around. The noise, she decided, was coming from a small, windowless work area just beyond the refrigerated room. She’d check it out in a minute.

  Joanne bent down to repair the hook.

  Chapter 13

  Amelia Sachs skidded to a stop in front of Ron Pulaski. After he jumped in she pointed the car north and gunned the engine.

  The rookie gave her the details of the meeting with Jordan Kessler. He added, “He seemed
legit. Nice guy. But I just thought I ought to check with Mrs. Creeley myself to confirm everything—about what Kessler gets because of Creeley’s death. She said she trusts him and everything’s on the up-and-up. But I still wasn’t sure so I called Creeley’s lawyer. Hope that was okay.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

  “Don’t know. Just thought I’d ask.”

  “It’s always okay to do too much work in this business,” Sachs told him. “The problems’re when somebody doesn’t do enough.”

  Pulaski shook his head. “Hard to imagine somebody working for Lincoln and being lazy.”

  She gave a cryptic laugh. “And what’d the lawyer say?”

  “Basically the same thing Kessler and the wife said. He buys out Creeley’s share at fair market value. It’s all legit. Kessler said his partner had been drinking more and had taken up gambling. His wife told me she was surprised he did that. Never was an Atlantic City kind of guy.”

  Sachs nodded. “Gambling—maybe some mob connections there. Dealing to them, or just taking along recreational drugs. Money laundering maybe. He win or lose, you know?”

  “Dropped some big money, seems like. I was wondering if he hit a loan shark to cover the loss. But his wife said the losses were no big deal, what with his income and everything. A couple hundred thousand didn’t hurt much. She wasn’t real happy about it, you can imagine. . . . Kessler said he had a good relationship with all his clients. But I asked for a list. I think we ought to talk to them ourselves.”

  “Good,” Sachs told him. Then she added, “Things’re getting gluier. There was another death. Murder/robbery, maybe.” She explained about her meeting with Gerte and told him about Frank Sarkowski. “I need you to track down the file.”

  “You bet.”

  “I—”

  She stopped speaking. She’d glanced into the rearview mirror and felt a tug in her gut. “Hm.”

  “What?” Pulaski asked.

  She didn’t answer but made a leisurely turn to the right, went several blocks more and then made a sharp left. “Okay, we may have a tail. Saw it a few minutes ago. Merc made those turns with us just now. No, don’t look.”

  It was a black Mercedes with darkened windows.

  She turned again, abruptly, and braked to a stop. The rookie grunted at the tug from the belt. The Merc kept going. Sachs glanced back, missed the tag but saw that the car was an AMG, the expensive, souped-up version of the German car.

  She spun the Camaro in a U-turn but just then a delivery truck double-parked in front of her. By the time she got around it the Merc was gone.

  “Who do you think it was?”

  Sachs shifted hard. “Probably a coincidence. Real rare to get tailed. And, believe me, it never happens by some dude in a hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar car.”

  Touching the cold body, the florist lying on the concrete, her face as pale as white roses scattered on the floor.

  The cold body, cold as the Cold Moon, but still soft; the hardness of death had not yet set in.

  Cutting the cloth off, the blouse, the bra . . .

  Touching . . .

  Tasting . . .

  These were the images cascading through Vincent Reynolds’s thoughts as he sat in the driver’s seat of the Band-Aid-mobile, staring into the dark workshop across the street, breathing fast, anticipating what he was about to do to Joanne. Consumed with hunger.

  Noise intruded. “Traffic Forty-two, can you . . . they want to add some barriers at Nassau and Pine. By the reviewing stand.”

  “Sure, we can do that. Over.”

  The words represented no threat to him or Gerald Duncan and so Vincent continued his fantasy.

  Tasting, touching . . .

  Vincent imagined that the killer would probably be pulling Joanne down on the floor, trussing her up right now. Then he frowned. Would Duncan be touching her in certain places? Her chest, between her legs?

  Vincent was jealous.

  Joanne was his girlfriend, not Duncan’s. Goddamn it! If he wanted to fuck something, let him go find a nice girl on his own. . . .

  But then he told himself to calm down. The hunger did that to you. It made you crazy, possessed you like the people in those gory zombie films Vincent watched. Duncan’s your friend. If he wants to play around with her, let him. They could share her.

  Vincent looked at his watch impatiently. It was taking soooo long. Duncan had told him that time wasn’t absolute. Some scientists once did an experiment where they put one clock way high in the air on a tower and one at sea level. The higher one ran more quickly than the one on the ground. Some law of physics. Psychologically, Duncan had added, time is relative too. If you’re doing something you love, it goes by fast. If you’re waiting for something, it moves slowly.

  Just like now. Come on, come on.

  The radio sitting on the dashboard crackled again. More traffic info, he assumed.

  But Vincent was wrong.

  “Central to any available unit in lower Manhattan. Proceed to Spring Street, east of Broadway. Be advised, looking for florist shops in the vicinity, in connection with the homicides on the pier at Two Two Street and the alley off Cedar Street last night. Proceed with caution.”

  “Jesus, Lord,” Vincent muttered aloud, staring at the scanner. Hitting REDIAL on the phone, he glanced up the street—no sign of any police yet.

  One ring, two . . .

  “Pick up!”

  Click. Duncan didn’t say anything—this was according to their plans. But Vincent knew he was on the line.

  “Get out, now! Move! The cops’re coming.”

  Vincent heard a faint gasp. The phone disconnected.

  “This is RMP Three Three Seven. We’re three minutes from scene.”

  “Roger that, Three Three Seven . . . Further to that call—we have a report, a ten-three-four, assault in progress, at four-one-eight Spring. All available units respond.”

  “Roger.”

  “RMP Four Six One, we’re on the way too.”

  “Come on, for Christ sake,” Vincent muttered. He put the Explorer in gear.

  Then a huge crash as a ceramic urn slammed through the glass front door of the florist’s workshop. Duncan came charging outside. He sprinted over the shattered glass shards, nearly fell on the ice and then raced to the Explorer, leaping into the passenger seat. Vincent sped away.

  “Slow down,” the killer commanded. “Turn at the next street.”

  Vincent eased off the gas. It was just as well he brought the speed down because, just as he did, a squad car skidded around the corner in front of them.

  Two more converged on the street, the officers leaping out.

  “Stop at the light,” Duncan said calmly. “Don’t panic.”

  Vincent felt a quiver run through his body. He wanted to punch it, just take the chance. Duncan sensed this. “No. Just behave like everybody else here. You’re curious. Look at the police cars. That’s okay to do.”

  Vincent looked.

  The light changed.

  “Slow.”

  He eased away from the light.

  More cop cars streaked past, responding to the call.

  The scanner reported several other cars were en route. An officer radioed that there was no ID of the suspected perp. No one said anything about the Band-Aid-mobile. Vincent’s hands were shaking but he kept the big SUV steady, square in the middle of his lane, speed never wavering. Finally, after they’d put some distance between them and the florist shop, Vincent said softly, “They knew it was us.”

  Duncan turned to him. “They what?”

  “The police. They were sending cars to look for florists around here, like it had something to do with the murders last night.”

  Gerald Duncan considered this. He didn’t seem shaken or mad. He frowned. “They knew we were there? That’s curious. How could they possibly know?”

  “Where should I go?” Vincent asked.

  His friend didn’t answer. He continued to look out at the st
reets. Finally he said in a calm voice, “For now, just drive. I have to think.”

  “He got away?” Rhyme’s voice snapped through the speaker of the Motorola. “What happened?”

  Standing beside Sachs at the scene in front of the florist shop, Lon Sellitto replied, “Timing. Luck. Who the fuck knows?”

  “Luck?” Rhyme snapped harshly, as if it were a foreign word he didn’t understand. Then he paused. “Wait . . . Are you using a scrambled frequency?”

  Sellitto said, “We are for tactical, but Central isn’t, not for nine-one-one calls. He must’ve heard the initial call. Shit. Okay, we’ll make sure they’re all scrambled on the Watchmaker case.”

  Rhyme then asked, “What does the scene say, Sachs?”

  “I just got here.”

  “Well, search it.”

  Click.

  Brother . . . Sellitto and Sachs glanced at each other. As soon as she’d gotten the call about the 10-34 on Spring, she’d dropped Pulaski off to find the Sarkowski homicide file and sped here to search the scene.

  I can do both.

  Let’s hope, Sachs. . . .

  She tossed her purse onto the backseat of the Camaro, locked the door and headed to the florist shop. She saw Kathryn Dance walking up the street from the main retail shop, where she’d interviewed the owner, Joanne Harper, who’d narrowly escaped being the Watchmaker’s third victim.

  An unmarked car pulled up to the curb, the emergency lights in the grille flashing. Dennis Baker shut them off and climbed out. He hurried toward Sachs.

  “It was him?” Baker asked.

  “Yep,” Sellitto told him. “Respondings found another clock inside. Same kind.”

  Three down, Sachs thought grimly. Seven to go . . .

  “Another love note?”

  “Not this time. But we were real close. I’m guessing he didn’t have a chance to leave one.”

  “I heard the call,” Baker said. “How’d you figure out it was him?”

  “There’d been an environmental agency bust a block from here—a spill at an exterminating company stockpiling illegal thallium sulfate, rat poison. Then Lincoln learned the main use of the fish protein found at the Adams killing was fertilizer for orchids. Lon had dispatch send out cars to florists and landscaping companies near the extermination operation.”