We’d barely sat down, but we were already in the hot seat.
“I’m doing everything I can,” Elizabeth answered respectfully but firmly. There was just a trace of edge and a hint of pushback in her voice. Suffice it to say she wouldn’t have been in the room, let alone been Deacon’s “personal” detective on this, if she didn’t know how to hold her own against him.
“Everything you can, huh? Well, you’re sure as shit about to get a lot more help, aren’t you?” he said, pointing at the newspapers spread atop the coffee table in front of us. Naturally, Grimes’s front-page story in the Gazette was on top. Too many of the hotel staff knew about the playing card left behind—or, rather, left “in the behind,” as Grimes blithely wrote in his article—for him to hold off any longer. Not to mention the photo the room-service kid had snapped. As predicted, it spread on Reddit faster than the Zika virus.
Now the whole city knew about the Dealer, and everyone with a badge was about to be on the case. FBI badges, too, if the victims began to pile up. Surely that was the last thing in the world the mayor wanted.
Deacon folded his arms, flashing that unhappy smile again. “So much for nipping this fucking thing in the bud, huh? What a bullshit wish that was.”
The mayor might have been an air force man, but he had the whole cursing-like-a-sailor thing down pat. Listening to him, I could picture the wholesome campaign ads featuring him and his wife with their two adorable little daughters eating cotton candy at a street fair.
In fact everything about the guy seemed to be a study in contrasts. For all the profanity, Edso Deacon sort of looked like Mister Rogers. And whereas the reception area was all glitz, his actual office was bare-bones and purely functional.
“What’s the latest from the hotel?” asked Livingston, whose chief-of-staff duties surely included keeping the mayor focused. “Do you really think this guy had a room there?”
At the hotel, I had assumed the Dealer would be desperate for an exit. His way out, however, was a door the cops couldn’t cover. It was the door to his room.
Cunning bastard.
Tribeca 212 had hundreds of rooms. Safety in numbers. It would’ve been nearly impossible to search them all while keeping people from coming and going. We didn’t even know what he looked like—not the slightest clue.
“We’re working off a registered guest list,” said Elizabeth. “We’re doing background checks, checking credit cards and alibis, but…” Her voice trailed off.
“What?” asked Livingston. “What is it?”
“Yeah, what the fuck is it?” asked Deacon.
They were both staring at Elizabeth. Not for long, though, once I loudly cleared my throat.
“It’s a waste of time,” I announced. “That’s what it is.”
Chapter 41
IT WAS only right that I jump in, since I was the one who’d convinced Elizabeth that our time was better spent elsewhere. Of course convincing the mayor and his chief of staff of that would be a little trickier. The hot seat was only getting warmed up.
“A waste of time?” asked Livingston. His eyebrows were so raised they were practically part of his hairline.
Ditto for Deacon. “What the hell are you talking about—a waste of time?”
Easy now, Dylan. These aren’t your students, and this isn’t your classroom…
“Perhaps waste is too strong a word,” I said. “But if we’re going to catch this guy, it won’t be by doing what he expects us to do. His escape plan from that hotel was to stay put. He most likely went back to his room, remained there a bit, and then reemerged with other guests. Just another face in the crowd.”
“Yeah, only we’re not talking Yankee Stadium,” said Livingston. “This is a crowd of, what, a hundred or so people? And we know he’s one of them.”
“Is he, though? There are a lot of ways to check into a hotel as someone else,” I said. “Maybe he paid cash and used a fake ID. Maybe he used a stolen credit card. Or maybe it’s something we haven’t thought of yet. The point is, he already has thought of it.”
Livingston wasn’t sold. “Are you sure you’re not giving this guy too much credit?”
“If anything, I’m still underestimating him,” I said.
“What if you’re wrong, though? How do you explain it to the family members of the next victim, this nine of diamonds, whoever he might be?” said Livingston. “Go ahead, tell them we didn’t track down and triple check every person at that hotel because we assumed the killer knew we would.”
“I sure as hell can’t do that,” said Deacon.
“Maybe not, but in the meantime you’ve managed to turn a whole bunch of innocent people into potential suspects,” I said. “Detectives will comb through their lives, and the backlash will be inevitable. The words right to privacy will suddenly haunt you in the media, and the whole tone will become personal, because that’s what people always do: they make things personal. Headlines will scream that the NYPD and especially the mayor are being outsmarted by a serial killer.”
Deacon blinked a few times. “Are you calling me stupid, Dr. Reinhart?”
“No,” I said. “I’m calling you a candidate.”
“So what’s the alternative?” asked Livingston. “Wait around until the next dead body turns up?”
Deacon and Livingston were forgetting something. “It’s not like I don’t have skin in the game,” I said.
“What, your book?” asked Livingston.
“I was thinking more about the back of my book. The author photo,” I said.
I waited for that spark of recognition to ignite their eyes. Together the mayor and his chief of staff would nod and realize that out of everyone in the room, I was the only one who had a target on his back.
But the spark never came. Or the nods.
“What’s so funny?” I asked Livingston.
Chapter 42
HE WASN’T actually laughing. It was worse. It was that Livingston wanted to laugh and knew he shouldn’t. The result was somewhere between a canary-eating grin and whatever you call that look people give you right before they tell you that your fly is open.
“Yeah, about your author photo,” said Livingston. “Sorry about that.”
Elizabeth took the words straight out of my mouth. “Sorry about what?” she asked.
Meanwhile, Deacon less than subtly turned to look out the window behind his desk, as if by not actually watching Livingston explain what he’d done he couldn’t be held accountable.
Mark Twain had it right. Politicians and diapers must be changed often, and for the same reason.
“Naturally, when Allen Grimes showed me the envelope containing your book and that bloody playing card, we wanted your help,” said Livingston. “We enlisted Elizabeth, and off she went to ask you. All I did was increase the odds that you would say yes.”
At that point, it would’ve been redundant of him to elaborate. I was already picturing him getting all arts-and-craftsy with my author photo. He must have used an X-Acto knife not only to slice up my face but also to cut up a magazine and pull out the letters that spelled Dead Wrong across my forehead. Nice touch underlining Dead with that red pen, too. A real thorough job.
The worst part? The thing that really pissed me off?
It was clever.
Although Elizabeth hadn’t quite gotten that far yet. To look at her was to know exactly what she was thinking. She wanted to kill Livingston with that same X-Acto knife.
“Are you kidding me? Do you know how fucked up that is?” she said to him, her cheeks burning red.
Apparently only Mayor Deacon himself was allowed to swear like that in his office. He spun around from his conveniently long stare out the window. “Cool it,” he warned her.
All that did was redirect her anger.
“You okayed this?” she asked the mayor.
“First off, I didn’t okay anything,” he insisted, each word more clipped than the next. “Second, you don’t get to ask me that.”
“But I do,” I said.
While Deacon was as politically savvy as they come, even the best of them lead with their chins from time to time. This was one of those times. Whatever hold the mayor had on Elizabeth, it didn’t extend to me. I was a free agent. If he didn’t realize it, his chief of staff certainly did.
“Dr. Reinhart, I hope you can understand that we simply couldn’t afford your turning us down,” said Livingston, coming to his boss’s rescue. “I know how tempting it is to be upset. What you should be is relieved.”
“That’s really how you’re going to spin this?” I asked.
“I’m serious,” said Livingston, doubling down. “If you really think about it, it never made sense. This guy clearly wants us to guess his next victims. Why would he so overtly announce you as a target?”
“That’s brilliant,” I said. “Did you major or minor in psychology?”
“Actually, the psych department at Harvard sucked when I was there,” he shot back.
The only thing worse than a Harvard guy is a guy who goes out of his way to tell you that he went to Harvard.
“Yes, you’re right. It’s my fault that I couldn’t figure out what you’d done,” I said with all the sarcasm I could muster. “Instead of a deranged serial killer slicing up a picture of me, it was actually you. To think I couldn’t tell the difference.”
Since I didn’t have a mike in my hand to drop, I did the next best thing. I stood up to leave.
“Mr. Mayor, good luck catching your serial killer,” I said. “And good luck in November with your reelection.”
Then I walked out.
Chapter 43
ELIZABETH RAN after me, the pounding of her heels echoing up and down the hallway outside Deacon’s office as I headed for the stairs. I could almost picture her timing the sprint, staying behind a few extra angry seconds to give the mayor and Livingston a little more grief while still leaving herself enough time to catch up to me. Advanced multitasking.
“Dylan, wait!” she called out. “Wait!”
I didn’t wait. But only because I wanted to get the hell out of the building. When I’d first walked in, it was City Hall. The City Hall. When I walked out, it was just another building in the city. Not even.
I stopped on the sidewalk when I got to Park Row. Then I turned around and waited.
“I know,” I said the second Elizabeth reached me.
“You know what?” she asked, catching her breath.
“I know you obviously had no idea what Livingston had done, and I know how sorry you are nonetheless,” I said. “I also know what you’re going to tell me now, so go ahead.”
“You can’t just walk away,” she said.
I watched her jaw tightening as she braced for an argument, most likely kicked off by some snappy retort on my part, like “I just did.”
But I was all out of snappy, at least for the day. Besides, if there’s a curse to studying human behavior it’s that you always start with yourself. I knew it wasn’t in me to walk away, not a chance. I couldn’t abandon Elizabeth.
“Do you really think I’d do that to you?” I asked.
“No, I really didn’t,” she said. Then, of all things, she leaned in and kissed my cheek.
“What was that for?”
“Proving me right,” she said, “and not leaving me hanging.”
“I am leaving you, though.”
“Wait—what?”
“Only for a couple of days,” I said. “I’m back Thursday night.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry. The nine of diamonds—whoever he or she is—will still be alive when I return.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked.
“Because I saw it on the news,” I said. “Which means the Dealer has, too. This is everything he wants.”
“Publicity.”
“No,” I said. “Fear. It might be September, but it’s about to be the summer of Sam all over again in this city, and our guy is going to milk it for a bit now that he has everyone’s attention. In fact he was probably wondering why it took so long for Grimes to break the story. No wonder he put that nine of diamonds where he did.”
“Not to sound like Livingston,” she said, “but what if you’re wrong? What if he’s killing that nine of diamonds right now?”
“Trust me; he’s not.”
“I don’t trust anyone, in case you haven’t noticed,” she said. “What if I need to reach you? Can I call your cell?”
“Sorry: no cell phones.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are two rules where I’m going, and that’s the first,” I said. “No cell phones.”
“What’s the second rule?”
“No food.”
“No food?”
“You can’t bring food, and you can’t buy any once you’re there.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Nope.”
“Where exactly are you going?” she asked.
Chapter 44
“YOU’RE LATE,” said my father.
That’s what I arrived to—his very first words to me. Never mind that I’d been driving in a rented Jeep Cherokee since the crack of dawn and that I hadn’t seen him for almost a year, since the last time we went hunting.
No hello, no handshake, no hug.
No surprise.
I dropped my gear, glancing at my watch. Noon on the dot. “The hell I’m late,” I said. “Isn’t that right, Diamond?”
My father’s vizsla, unequivocally the coolest dog in the world, came jumping over to me, landing his front paws on my waist, as he always did. As I always did in return, I gave Diamond’s golden-rust coat a vigorous working over, watching his tail whip back and forth to the point of being a blur.
Leave it to a breeding stock that first arrived the United States from behind the Iron Curtain to be my father’s emotional surrogate.
“So you found it all right, huh?” asked my father.
“The last couple of turns were a little tricky,” I said. “GPS only gets you so far in these parts.”
So did the roads themselves. Rendezvous was an off-the-grid cabin half a mile beyond the end of a dirt road. The last stretch of pavement was at least five miles before that. I wasn’t sure I had the right spot until I saw my father’s old—very old—Jeep Commando parked in a small clearing.
Usually we’d be meeting at a hunting preserve in New Hampshire near where my father retired, in Concord, but my calling him out of the blue required ad hoc measures. The start of grouse season was still a few weeks away in the Granite State, so my father called in a favor from a friend who owned four hundred acres an hour north of Bangor, Maine. The private land was exempt from the state’s hunting regulations, thanks to a grandfather clause. We were good to go, just the two of us, all four hundred acres to ourselves.
Still, safety first. Hunting gospel: be seen or be dead.
“Here,” said my father after lugging my duffel into the cabin. He tossed me a bright orange pinny. “Wear it.”
There was a joke to be made, something about not having an excuse to shoot one another now. But I held my tongue. This trip had a larger purpose, after all.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I asked.
The second I put my arms through the pinny, my father reached for the small sling bag that I’ve used since I was a teenager to carry my ammo and shooting glasses. It was almost like he planned it that way, waiting until my hands were occupied so I couldn’t stop him.
“Just making sure,” he said, poking around inside the bag. “Remember when that Milky Way mysteriously found its way in here?”
“Yeah, I remember,” I said. “I also remember that I was fifteen at the time.”
“Rules are rules.” He handed me back the bag. “All clear.”
“Are you sure? You could frisk me, too,” I said.
The prohibition against food was the crazier of his two rules, for sure. Although for the purist—and, if anything, Josiah
Maxwell Reinhart was a purist—it made sense. Kill only what you intend to eat.
And if you don’t kill anything, you don’t eat.
No exceptions. Including contraband candy bars, I learned as a kid. “Hunger makes a man focus,” he told me then.
I stared at him now. His short-cropped hair was graying at the tips. Other than that, he was winning the fight against aging. Kicking its ass, actually. No sag beneath the chin or anywhere else. Still sturdy as hell.
Just as stubborn, too.
“How’s your friend?” he asked.
“His name is Tracy, Dad, and he’s a little more than a friend,” I said. “I know you got the wedding invitation.”
He mumbled something in return. I couldn’t hear it, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to.
Instead I wet my finger, checking the breeze. Hunting for grouse meant heading into the wind so the scent would blow toward Diamond.
“So,” I said, propping the same 20-gauge Remington against my shoulder that I’ve been using since my Milky Way days. “Are we going to stand around talking like girls or are we going hunting?”
My father smiled. It was genuine, no trace of his trademark smirk.
“We’re going hunting,” he said.
Chapter 45
MY FATHER and hunting have a lot of things in common. First and foremost, they both require a lot of patience.
For nearly two hours, we walked in silence amid the dense poplars—mostly bigtooth aspens and quaking aspens—with Diamond leading the way. It was good exercise, but it wasn’t dinner. From time to time, Diamond even turned back to us and cocked his head as if to say, “Not a single whiff—what gives?”
The only good news was that I didn’t have to wait out my father’s state of denial as long as I’d thought. He knew there was more to this outing than my suddenly having a hankering for ruffed grouse. Plenty of restaurants serve the bird in Manhattan, although “those lefty idiots down there,” as my father calls them, mistakenly refer to it as partridge.
No, my father definitely knew I had something to discuss with him. In person.
Instinct Page 9