Smith cupped his hands to light a cigarette as he walked past the doorman. Yeah, the kid was a lump of coal. Smith glanced through the glass at the lobby, but the interior was mostly obscured by the outside glare.
Smith glanced around and then up and down the length of the stone façade. A half a block past the building, he took a sharp left and cut through an alley to a narrow drive that led to a private parking structure servicing Caspian’s building. He hoisted himself up and over a low concrete barrier and dropped to the other side.
A short stairway ended at a landing and a locked metal door. There was a panel with a numeric key pad on the wall next to the gray door. Smith entered Caspian’s four-digit code. The lock released and suddenly Smith was inside.
He took an elevator to the 14th floor and found Caspian’s apartment. No one answered the door. He used the key Heather had provided. He entered silently and eased the door shut behind him. The apartment was dark and quiet. He held the gun ready and advanced deeper inside. Caspian wasn’t home.
Smith switched on a table lamp. The apartment was sparsely decorated. It was very clean and felt like it hadn’t been lived in for weeks. The bed was undisturbed. He stopped in the kitchen and put his cell phone to his ear.
“Caspian is out,” he said. “Bring the gear. I’ll meet you at the street in five minutes.”
It was thirty-seven minutes after midnight.
7
Coburn woke at 5:30 a.m. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Light from the muted TV flickered against the pale surface above him. Memories of the events of the previous night rushed to the forefront of his mind.
The drapes were closed and the room remained mostly dark. He lingered in the shower, lathering a tiny bar of hotel soap. Five minutes later he was dressed and took the elevator to the lobby. There was a small buffet set up in a room near the front desk. He discovered a spread of fruit and muffins, but settled for coffee in a paper cup. He was on his way out the door when a television in a corner of the room caught his eye. The morning news was on, and a reporter from a local affiliate was talking into the camera. She was tiny compared to the man standing beside her. The ribbon at the bottom of the screen identified him as Detective O’Shannon of the NYPD, and he appeared as wide as he was tall. He wore a wrinkled gray suit and looked like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in at least a decade. They were standing in Washington Square Park.
The reporter glanced at her notes as she spoke, then tipped her microphone toward the detective. The lower half of his face was an acre of gray stubble. His eyes avoided the camera.
Coburn turned up the volume on the TV.
“This investigation will be ongoing,” O’Shannon was saying. “We can’t provide any further details at this time, except that we are treating this case as a homicide.”
The reporter spoke again, “We have an unofficial source who tells us the victim was a twenty-something female with red hair. Can you confirm this information?”
“No further comment,” O’Shannon said.
Coburn glanced around and spotted a clock on the wall. It was the top of the hour. He wasn’t interested in New York, or the local news, or Detective O’Shannon of the NYPD, but something about the mention of a murder investigation so soon after his encounter with Brian Ripley made him decide to have a look around. He retraced his steps from the night before and counted three police prowl cars at the main entrance to the park. The fountain shimmered in the morning light. There was no sign of O’Shannon or the lovely blonde reporter, and the coroner’s van was gone.
His mind flashed to the bar in Greenwich Village the previous night. He replayed his memory of Ripley going out the door with the redhead he had called Heather. He remembered sprinting up the stairs to the street. There had been no trace of them, but he recalled the lights from the Washington Square arch in the near distance. Something about the look in Ripley’s eyes made him believe that Heather might be the woman who had been murdered, but that seemed crazy.
Coburn crossed the street to the park and casually crossed the police tape. Something caught his eye on the outside of a trashcan, and every time the light caught it broadside it produced a flash effect. Coburn plucked it free. It was a business card made from high-end stock, and smelled faintly of perfume. It was off-white, or maybe cream, but the only thing printed on it was a phone number. There was no name, no address, no other information. Coburn turned it over. There was nothing printed on back.
Then he heard someone shout and he saw a cop walking toward him. Coburn dropped the card back in the trash.
“This is a crime scene, pal. Get back behind the tape,” the cop ordered.
“I’m looking for O’Shannon,” Coburn said quickly. “I want to talk to him about the woman’s body he pulled out of here this morning.”
“Too bad. You just missed him.”
“Where can I find him?” Coburn asked.
“O’Shannon works at the Sixth Precinct.”
• • •
Jones had watched it all. He had lingered near the park since before daylight. Smith had done a piss-poor job of hiding the body, Jones thought. But then again he’d chosen an awful place to kill the girl.
Jones hadn’t slept. He had sipped strong coffee and watched the coroner’s van haul away the corpse and then saw the news crew show up and point their camera here and there. Then he had watched Coburn cross the empty street and drift along the perimeter of the park.
He had recognized Coburn the instant he saw him, and had immediately dialed Smith on his cell.
“Your buddy from the bar last night is here at the park.”
“Coburn? What’s he doing?”
“Snooping around.”
“Talking to the cops?”
“Not yet.”
“Keep an eye on him.”
“I’m on him like glue.”
He watched Coburn cross the police tape, then observed the brief conversation with the cop near the fountain. When Coburn crossed the tape and headed away from the park, Jones again dialed his boss.
“Coburn is on the move.”
“Stay on him.”
“He had a quick one-on-one with a cop in the park.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Not a word.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s on foot.”
“Don’t lose him.”
“You think he knows about the girl?” Jones asked.
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
“He’s moving fast.”
“Don’t lose him,” Smith said again.
Jones slapped his cell shut and fell into pursuit.
8
The Sixth Precinct station house was on West Tenth Street. Coburn took Waverly Place to Sherridan Square, then shot over to Tenth. The outside façade was reddish brick with a long row of windows set up high and windows to either side of the entrance. A blue police bicycle was chained to a light pole at the curb. Several long cement planters boasted leafy green flora clearly in need of a drink. Coburn glanced up at the office windows. The morning sun shone brightly on the glass.
He went inside. The interior was an open floor plan crowded with metal desks. The atmosphere was mellow because it was still early. The overnighters were winding down while the day shift geared up for the next eight hours on duty. He waited for the female officer at the duty desk to finish her telephone call. The desk was a long wooden counter with a gate at one end. The duty officer was a tiny woman with a waist about as big around as Coburn’s upper thigh. She clicked the phone back into its cradle and reflexively tugged at her left earlobe. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Coburn’s battered face.
“I’m a little busy here, sweetheart,” she said, hands shuffling paperwork. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Detective O’Shannon.”
“Name?”
“Coburn.”
She grabbed at the phone again and dialed an extension.
Coburn watched her face as she listened to the voice in her ear.
“Says his name is Coburn. Huh? Dunno…”
She narrowed her eyes at him again.
“Coburn, give me a first name.”
“John. John Coburn.”
She maintained eye contact as she passed along the update. “John Coburn.”
Coburn waited.
“Says he’s never heard of you.”
“I’m here about the body they found in the park. The redhead.”
“Something about a redhead in the park,” she repeated into the phone.
Coburn stared through the glass partition separating the duty counter from the cube farm. He knew O’Shannon had to be seated out there somewhere.
“The detective says for you to leave a note here with me. Put a number on there where you can be reached, and he’ll give you a call.”
“No dice. This won’t wait. Tell him I might have a lead on who killed her.”
She frowned. “Sounds like you might want to listen to what this guy has to say. Might be worth five minutes, so I’m sending him back. Yeah, well, you are so very welcome.”
She put down the phone and glared.
“OK, handsome, he’ll give you five. Make it count.” She hooked a thumb over one shoulder. “Through the door and halfway down on the left. You can’t miss him.”
“Thank you.”
She ignored him, already busy with some other task.
Coburn passed through a door in the glass partition. The cube farm extended much wider and deeper than it had first appeared but he still walked straight to O’Shannon’s desk. Donna was right, O’Shannon was hard to miss. He was nearly the width of his own desk. His rumpled gray suit coat was draped over the back of his chair. His shift sleeves were pushed up at the elbows and pair of rimless half-moon reading glasses sat perched on the tip of his nose, which was bulbous and streaked with broken blood vessels. The detective was pecking out a report on an ancient IBM Selectric using only his middle fingers.
“Detective O’Shannon?” Coburn said.
O’Shannon backspaced the typewriter to correct a misspelling.
“The clock is ticking, Mr. Coburn. Whatever you’ve got, make it good. If you waste my time, you’ll receive a bill in the mail.”
“I’m here about the murder in Washington Square Park.”
“How do you know anything about anything?”
“I saw you on the news this morning, so I took a walk to the park. I happened to be staying at a hotel a few blocks away.”
O’Shannon went back to typing. “Color me impressed.”
“I saw her last night shortly before she was killed.”
“Where did you see her?”
“In a bar a few blocks from the park. I saw her leave with someone and I have a hunch she might have been in danger.”
O’Shannon looked up from the Selectric and swiveled around in the chair. His watery eyes were magnified in the half-moon lenses.
“Who did that to your face?”
“A guy at the bar.”
The detective closed one eye, as if taking aim.
“Because you spoke to his girl?”
“No. Not the same guy.”
O’Shannon opened the eye, looked at him square on.
“What are you not telling me?”
“There was more than one of them, and one of them was an old friend of mine.”
O’Shannon asked, “What’s his name?”
“Show me the body first. If she isn’t the girl I remember from last night, I’m not going to drag my friend into this. Because maybe I’m wrong, and maybe I’m wasting your time. But I won’t know for sure until I see the corpse.”
O’Shannon folded his reading glasses and dropped them on his desk. He used the edge of the desktop as leverage to stand. “Follow me,” he said.
9
Coburn followed O’Shannon through a series of corridors. The man walked with his shoulders slumped forward but was still a towering figure. Coburn could hear him laboring for breath. He followed the detective down a flight of stairs and had serious concerns that the huge man might die before they reached the basement.
There was no mistaking the smell of the morgue. O’Shannon pushed through double doors, leading Coburn into a wide annex with gleaming tile and several stainless steel autopsy tables. The walls were lined with rows of stainless steel drawers.
A morgue tech named Seymour hurried over to help. He looked about twelve, with peach fuzz on his chin. O’Shannon told him what they needed and Seymour nodded. He pulled a drawer and unzipped the bag so they could view the body.
Coburn edged around the drawer for a better look. There was no doubt in his mind she was the girl from the bar. The red hair was tangled, salted with bits of grass, leaves and dirt. Her eyes were open, vacant green and dulled by death. The bullet had angled down and exited through her mouth.
“Shots to the back and the back of the head,” Seymour narrated.
“Our man made quick work of her,” O’Shannon commented.
Coburn nodded. Her navy shirt was stained dark and crusted with dried blood.
Seymour was busy torturing a stick of gum, waiting for them to finish so that he could zip her back up and get on with his morning routine.
The detective took a step back from the drawer and worked his fingers into the collar of his shirt, desperate for a little more breathing room.
“So, what’s the verdict, chief?” he asked Coburn.
Coburn hadn’t taken his eyes off the girl. He had crossed paths with this woman for less than sixty seconds, and then she had disappeared with a man Coburn had once considered a brother. Now she was pale and stiff, an empty vessel.
Coburn nodded. “She’s the girl from the bar.”
• • •
“His name is Brian Ripley.”
“How do you know him?” O’Shannon asked.
“Roomed with him in college, but I haven’t spoken to him in years.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Other than last night?”
O’Shannon nodded.
Coburn shrugged. “College.”
O’Shannon set down his pen. He’d been taking notes as he rattled off questions.
“You’re yanking my chain, right?”
“No.”
“So it’s been forever.”
“Seventeen years, give or take.”
The detective sighed.
They were back in the cube farm. Coburn was seated in a roller chair facing O’Shannon’s desk. The general commotion of the precinct was ramping up.
O’Shannon rolled his big eyes at Coburn.
“People change a lot in seventeen years.”
“I recognized him instantly.”
“How long did you room with him?”
“Nearly two full years.”
“And you were friends?”
“Best friends.”
“Did you have a falling out?”
“No.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“He said I had him confused with someone else,” Coburn admitted.
“There you go.”
“Wrong. He was lying.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where was Ripley from, originally?”
Coburn searched his memory. He was having to reach way back. “Omaha, I think. His father ran a Century 21 office. The family had money.”
O’Shannon scribbled on his pad. “How old would he be now?”
“My age. Thirty-eight.”
“Did Ripley graduate?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Do you remember him having any violent tendencies?”
“None at all. He was a genuinely nice guy.”
O’Shannon cocked his head and shot a skeptical glare across the desk.
“A genuinely ni
ce guy would not put the muzzle of a nine-millimeter in the face of a pretty young woman and pull the trigger.”
Coburn couldn’t argue the point. “There’s still no definitive evidence that Ripley had anything to do with her murder. This is all pure speculation. For all I know, Ripley and the girl might have gone their separate ways right outside the door.”
O’Shannon pushed files and paperwork around his desk. The half-moon glasses were again on his nose. He cleared his throat. “All I can do is run Ripley’s name through the federal database. Maybe I’ll discover he has a criminal record. Maybe he’s killed before. Maybe there’s an outstanding warrant. But maybe he’s a priest. Maybe he lives in Tennessee and hasn’t left the state in ten years.”
Coburn stood. “He was in New York last night.”
O’Shannon shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’ll look into it. Do you have a number where I can reach you?”
Coburn gave him his cell number.
O’Shannon held out his card.
“Put that in your pocket and give me a call if you think of anything else.”
Coburn turned to go, but hesitated.
“Brian Ripley is in Manhattan. Whatever your computer turns up, it doesn’t change the fact of what I know I saw. I can’t prove that he killed the girl you’ve got in the morgue, and I certainly hope he didn’t, but he was with her last night and they left the bar together. So if you manage to track him down, he might at least be able to add to what I’ve already told you, and help you find the real killer. Call me when you know something.”
O’Shannon frowned, returning his attention to his typewriter.
“I certainly will, Coburn. I certainly will,” he said. “But don’t waste your time waiting for the phone to ring.”
10
Coburn stepped back out into the sunlight. The day had brightened. The sun stood high and bold in the pale blue sky. It was his first full taste of New York since arriving the night before.
The girl in the body bag was heavy on his mind. She had been a stunning beauty, but much of the memory of beauty from the previous night had been replaced by a morbid image of the corpse in the morgue. A cold shiver walked up his spine. The murder was brutal. Someone had done a thorough job on her. The first bullet would have killed her, the others had been gratuitous. The shiver up his spine had nothing to do with viewing the dead body though. He’d seen hundreds. No, the shiver was caused by the thought that Brian Ripley might have been involved.
Never Back Down Page 3
