“It will be worth every penny,” Armstrong said.
40
Miller brought another load of equipment up on the elevator. He carried an aluminum case and bumped the door with the knuckles of one hand. It was half a minute before Smith opened the door. Smith immediately locked the door after Miller entered and left the lights off.
Smith lifted the aluminum case onto the granite countertop in the kitchen, popped the latches, and opened the lid. A hand-held drill and several bits were pressed into cutouts in the foam interior. Smith lifted out the drill and widened the attachment teeth with the chuck. Then he selected a bit and used the chuck to tighten it back up. He snapped in the big blocky battery and pulled the trigger. The motor whirred and the bit spun.
The apartment had darkened as evening fell upon the city. They worked by the light of tiny work lanterns attached to headbands.
Miller followed Smith into Caspian’s hidden storage space in the wall. There were two rows of cabinets made of reinforced steel. Each cabinet was locked and required a code to be entered into an alphanumeric touchpad.
Alarms were a concern, but Smith had strobed the outer skeletal structure with an x-ray wand and he believed the cabinets were clean. The x-ray had also told him where the bolts were located and he had marked them with a permanent black marker.
Miller stood in the narrow doorway and watched Smith work. Smith went down on his knees and raised his elbows, holding the drill at the necessary height and aiming the bit straight and true. He bumped the tip of the bit against the first black mark. It tapped the metal.
He steadied his head so that the work light clipped to his headband wouldn’t waver. The drill was slightly bulkier than the typical Makita or DeWalt that would be found in a backyard workshop, and it was more powerful. Smith squeezed the trigger and again the motor whirred. The bit turned and scribed a dot into the surface paint. He eased off the trigger and backed it away and inspected his aim. He had produced a silver dot exactly at the crosshairs of the marker strokes.
Smith pressed the tip of the bit into the shallow indentation and goosed the trigger. The motor revved and the threads down the length of the bit blurred. He applied pressure and felt the resistance. A single bead of sweat trickled past his ear. The bit cut into the metal casing, producing curly metal splinters an inch long. The progress was slow, but it was progress nonetheless. The room was quiet except for the steady whine of the drill. Miller clicked off his head lamp and watched in silence.
41
Three miles due south, John Coburn was on the seventh floor of a hospital, sitting at the bedside of a man who had only one leg. The limb had been amputated the previous morning. The bedcover was flat where the missing leg should have been. The man’s head was propped up on two pillows and he stared vacantly off into space.
Coburn had sat and visited for an hour. He had simply knocked on the door, wandered in and asked the guy if he was up for a little conversation.
“Better than spending the entire night alone, I guess,” the guy had responded, his voice weak and filled with resignation and sadness.
Coburn had done nothing more than keep the man company and attempt to act as a distraction against the dark thoughts that had surely clouded his mind. They had talked sports and politics and racehorses.
The guy loved the track. It turned out he had squandered most of his life’s wages and two marriages on the ponies. He’d been checking race stats on his iPhone when he clipped a car in the opposite lane while doing seventy on the FDR and he had flipped three times. He had not been wearing a seatbelt. The emergency responders had pried him out and freed his leg. The doctors had given him three full days before they cut it off four inches above the knee.
The man’s eyes settled on the shape of the stump beneath the sheets.
“I’ve got nothing left to mess up,” he sighed with his head slanted to one side on the pillow. He was facing away from his sole visitor of the day.
“Maybe not,” Coburn said. “Or it means you’ve got nowhere to go but up.”
The guy turned his head on the pillow.
“You really a doctor?”
Coburn nodded.
“Would you have cut off my leg?”
Coburn nodded again. “And then I would have gone out and got very drunk.”
Coburn stood. He patted the guy on the shoulder.
“I’m pulling for you, Larry.”
The man’s eyes were glassy. “Take care of yourself, John,” he said.
Coburn walked alone along the long hospital wing. He had wandered the hall for hours, visiting with lonely patients, distracting them from their misery if only for a few minutes. He hated hospitals, but loved patients, and loved the art and practice of medicine. He was a healer at heart, but he hated the bureaucracy and administrative battlefield of the medical system.
He had spent half the afternoon in the cancer ward talking to children who wouldn’t live to be teenagers. They loved music and movies and playing video games. He told them he was a pilot and had once been shot down over China and they gawked at him with wide-eyed fascination.
A small boy whose head was bald from chemo had asked to touch the scars on his back. Coburn had lifted his shirt and watched the boy’s face light up as he ran his tiny fingers over the ridges where the surgeon had stitched him back together.
“Did it hurt?’ the boy asked.
Coburn had twisted his face into an expression of deep thought, then answered, “Yeah, a little, but I’m a pretty tough guy, and those doctors did a really great job.”
“Wow.”
“‘Wow is right.”
He talked football with a kid named Jacob and broke Jacob’s heart by declaring that not only would the Cowboys beat the Giants this year, they would also win the Super Bowl. Jacob laughed and informed him that Coburn was suffering from severe mental problems.
A nurse in the hall told him that Jacob had lymphoma and was unlikely to make it another six months. He would never know whether the Giants even made the playoffs.
Coburn had taken an elevator to the cafeteria and sat at a table with his face in his hands, trying not to let every single tear in his head spill out.
Larry, the amputee on seven, was his final stop. Coburn had a date with a blonde named Addison and he didn’t intend to be late. He made the hike across two blocks to Lexington, and then it was a short walk north to the W Hotel. It was a quarter to eight.
42
Coburn went inside and made a pass through the lobby. There was no sign of the breathtaking blonde who had been described over the phone. He went back outside and crossed to the opposite side of the street. He stood against a light pole and listened to the sounds of Manhattan buzz around him as he watched the hotel entrance.
He wasn’t worried about the police. The heart of midtown at night forced anonymity upon him. There was no way any cop would spot him among the lights and crowds, but still, he was anxious about the night’s outcome.
At five minutes before eight, a taxi stopped in front of the hotel and he saw a blonde get out and pay the driver. The woman entered the hotel alone. The taxi didn’t move. It was probably waiting for the next fare to materialize. Coburn counted to ten before darting through a break in traffic. The taxi was still idling at the curb when he walked past and trailed his fingers across the slope of the trunk.
The voice on the phone had spoken the truth. Addison did make every other woman within a wide radius look like a handbag. She was near perfect. She was standing near a vase of fresh flowers when Coburn approached.
“Addison?” he said.
She turned, and performed a quick, practiced assessment of him.
“I believe I’m your date.”
Addison looked him up and down. There was clear disapproval of his clothes, but she seemed pleased enough with his face and awkward smile.
“Ok then, John, what do you have in mind?” She had a sexy voice, not far removed from the woman on the phone who had booked the date.
“Excuse me?”
Addison placed a hand on one hip and aimed her laser-like blue eyes at him.
“You are laying down two grand an hour for me, cutie. Where do you want to party?”
“I’d like to take a walk.”
“Where and why?”
“I’d like to talk.”
She gave him a look.
“There are 900 numbers for that, and those will cost you a lot less.”
“The money is not an issue.”
“What is it, sweetie? Are you just a lonely boy?”
“Let’s walk. I’ll explain.”
She assessed him a moment longer. Obviously there were safety concerns to consider. Addison frowned, then shrugged.
“Whatever,” she said. “You seem harmless enough, and you’ve got kind eyes.”
“I do?”
She nodded. “You look like a boy scout. I’ve always wanted to blow a boy scout.”
“I’m not interested in sex,” Coburn said as they walked.
There was a small crowd a half block from the hotel. A black guy with a battered Stratocaster plugged into a portable amp was playing Hendrix. Coburn noted the guy was right-handed. Hendrix had been a lefty.
Coburn and the call girl drifted around the outer edge of the impromptu audience and moved on down the sidewalk.
“Are you gay?” she asked.
“Not a chance,” he answered.
“Good. As a red blooded woman, let me just say, I’d be crushed if you were.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
Addison shrugged.
“I’m actually interested in one of the other girls at your agency,” Coburn said.
She stopped and glared at him.
“What?”
“I want to ask you about another girl.”
“Are you just weird or what?”
“Her name is Heather.”
Her expression changed.
“Who are you?” she asked in a hostile tone.
“Did you know her?”
“What the hell is this?”
“I need information.”
Addison turned on her heels and changed directions like she fully intended to return to the hotel or hail a cab.
“I don’t talk about other girls. This lovely conversation is way over.”
“Were you friends with her?”
“Seriously, I’m done.”
She stepped to the curb and put out a hand.
“Did you know that something happened to her?” he asked.
Addison whipped her head around at him, her luxurious blond hair flipping from one shoulder to the other. “Get the hell away from me!”
“I’ll pay you an extra five hundred an hour. Just to answer a few questions.”
She had already reloaded and had geared up to tell him off, but she bit down on her words.
“Just answer some questions,” he said again.
She hesitated a moment.
“Twenty-five hundred an hour?”
He nodded.
She took a breath, shrugged, and crossed her arms over her perfect chest that she was obviously skilled at arranging and displaying.
Addison moved a step ahead of him.
“So talk,” she said.
“Heather was murdered night before last.”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve seen her body.”
“Where?”
“The morgue.”
He saw her shiver at the thought.
“Why were you at the morgue, and what does this have to do with me?” she asked.
“I saw her alive, briefly, the night she was murdered.”
Addison didn’t slow down. Coburn lengthened his stride to keep up with her.
“This is so creepy,” she said.
“I know who murdered her,” he said.
She glanced at him. “Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“I know who killed her, but I need to find out what Heather was doing with him.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m John.”
Addison pushed a silky strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
“Heather was an escort. What do you think she was doing with whoever the freak was?”
“It wasn’t sex, and she wasn’t on the clock.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She wasn’t dressed for it,” he said.
Addison halted, turned to him.
“Do you really know who killed her?”
“Absolutely.”
“How sure are you?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
Coburn nodded.
She started walking again.
“Ok,” she said. “You are right about one thing, Heather wasn’t working that night.”
“Was it her night off?”
She shook her head no.
“Heather was getting out of the business. She was done. She told me she had made her money and wanted out, which I found funny. I stay every bit as busy as she was, and I’m certainly not independently wealthy. So, I did the math. I’d say she found herself a sugar daddy. Maybe one of her clients. A rich boyfriend. Maybe he was the freak who killed her. So I guess that’s the moral of the story. There’s no such thing as a free ride.”
“Maybe she found another job.”
She smiled. “Baby, the past two years I’ve worked less than ten hours a week and made half a million a year. This isn’t trailer trash sex. This is strictly high class. I work only when I want to, and I have the right to refuse any job I don’t like. I’m twenty-eight, and if I take extremely good care of myself and watch what I eat, stay out of the sun, and live at the gym, it’s possible that I can extend this gig another ten years. I watch my money. I invest. I’m a planner. Sure, I’d like to get out, but I’m not stupid. I’ll never make this kind of money sitting behind a desk. I knew Heather pretty well. We talked and I don’t buy for a second that she put in her resume somewhere and decided to push papers for a living. No way, but she told me she was getting out, and now she’s dead. Whatever she had going, she took her secret to the grave.”
“This guy wasn’t her sugar daddy. I want to know why she was involved with him.”
“Can’t help you.”
“Tell me more about Heather.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“You were friends.”
“I use the term loosely.”
“You talked.”
Addison shrugged, her arms still folded over her chest.
“Occasionally we’d meet for drinks. I stayed the night at her place once to hide from a boyfriend, but her sister gave me the stink eye and I’ve never been back.”
“Heather has a sister?”
Addison nodded.
“Identical twin, but they were cut from different cloth. Sabrina is very edgy, very punk. kind of scary. They lived together in an apartment downtown. They seemed tight, but who knows. Anyway, that’s all I have to share.”
Coburn stopped walking.
She turned and looked at him.
“What?” she said.
“I’m going to find this guy.”
“Please do.”
“You should find another way to make a living. Someday someone might get a little rough and things can go very wrong very fast. You deserve better.”
“I love my life.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“I think you’re a sweet guy.”
“Give me her address?”
“Sabrina’s?”
Coburn nodded.
Addison stepped close to him and took a gold pen from her purse. She took his hand in hers and turned his palm up. She clicked the pen and scrawled the information in neat script directly onto his flesh.
“There,” she said, dropping his hand to his side.
Coburn inspected what she’d written.
“No,” she said. “That’s mine. In case you ever change your mind about the sex.” She placed the tip of her tongue against her upper teeth. “I’d still love to blow a boy scout.” She smiled and turned to go, then turned back. “One last thing,” she said. “Her real name wasn’t Heather. Her real name was Courtney Swisher.”
43
Coburn transferred the address to paper before it rubbed off his sweaty palm. He folded the scrap of paper and put it in his pocket. Below the address, he’d written the name Courtney Swisher. Obviously, Heather had been her professional alias.
The apartment was on Bleeker on the Lower West Side.
He wasn’t surprised to see a NYPD black and white parked across the street. Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the police had pulled Courtney Swisher’s body from Washington Square Park. That was time enough to run her prints. If she had any record at all, they would have got a name and her most recently known address. They would have found the apartment and maybe even already questioned Sabrina. Coburn couldn’t imagine Sabrina being overly cooperative.
The squad car was parked in a tow-away zone. He could see two heads. They were tasked with watching the street. The car was parked outside a video rental store that had big posters of Hollywood stars hung in the windows. Two doors down from the rental store was the walkup to the apartment. The cops had a clear view. Maybe they were waiting for Sabrina to come home. Maybe they’d already been up and knocked on the door and nobody was home.
Coburn remained on the opposite side of the street. A thin Pakistani man was standing outside an antique shop smoking a cigarette. Coburn ducked past him into the antique shop. It was like walking into a bazaar in the heart of Istanbul. There were tables and lamps and statues of pagan idols. The sights, smells, and colors overwhelmed and mesmerized. There was low music in the background, some kind of unfamiliar stringed instruments. Coburn walked down the center aisle and made two left turns around a long narrow table, ending up at a window overlooking the street. The window had a reddish hue from the interior lights. He placed a hand flat against the wall and peered out. He could see the prowl car and the heads of the two cops.
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