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

by Deaver, Jeffery

  “So how’d it go?”

  Pulaski was struggling to keep from grinning. “Okay, I guess.”

  “You nailed it, hm?”

  A shrug. “Well, the desk sergeant wasn’t going to let me in but I gave him this look, like what the hell’re you doing, stopping me. You want to call Police Plaza and tell ’em they’re not getting the form thanks to you? He backed right down. Surprised me.”

  “Good job.” She tapped her fist to his, and she could see how pleased the young man was at his performance.

  Sachs pulled away from the curb and they headed out of the East Village. When she thought they were far enough away from the house, she pulled over and they started comparing the two sets of figures.

  After ten minutes they had the results. The quantities noted in the precinct log and the DA’s report were very close. Only about six or seven ounces of pot and four of cocaine were unaccounted for, over the entire year.

  Pulaski said, “And none of the evidence logs looked doctored. I figured that might be something to look for too.”

  So one motive—that the St. James crew and Creeley were selling drugs boosted from the 118th’s evidence locker—wasn’t in play. This small amount missing could’ve been lost because of crime scene testing or spillage or inaccurate logging at the scene.

  But even if the cops weren’t stealing from the locker, they might still have been dealing, of course. Maybe the cops scored the drugs directly from a source. Or they were perped at a bust before they were logged into evidence. Or Creeley himself might’ve been the supplier.

  Pulaski’s first undercover operation answered one question but others remained.

  “Okay, onward and upward, Ron. Now, tell me, you want a bartender or a businessman?”

  “I don’t really care. How ’bout we flip a coin?”

  “The Watchmaker probably bought the clocks at Hallerstein’s Timepieces,” Mel Cooper announced to Rhyme and Sellitto, hanging up the phone. “The Flatiron District.”

  Before he’d been dragged off by Sachs on the Creeley case, Pulaski had tracked down the Northeast wholesaler for Arnold Products. The head of the distribution company had just returned the rookie’s call.

  Cooper reported that the distributor didn’t keep records by serial number, but that if the clocks had been sold in the New York area, it would have been at Hallerstein’s, the only outlet there. The store was located south of Midtown in the neighborhood named after the historic triangular building on Fifth Avenue and Twenty-third Street, which resembled an old-time flatiron.

  “Check out the store,” Rhyme instructed.

  Cooper searched online. Hallerstein’s didn’t have its own website but was listed in several sites that sold antique clocks and watches. It had been in operation for years. The owner was a man named Victor Hallerstein. A check on him revealed no record. Sellitto punched in caller ID block and called, not identifying himself, just to check on the store hours. He pretended he’d been in before and asked if he was speaking to Hallerstein himself. The man said he was. Sellitto thanked him and hung up.

  “I’ll go talk to him, see what he has to say.” Sellitto pulled on his coat. It was always better to drop in on witnesses unexpectedly. Phoning ahead gave them a chance to think up lies, whether or not they had anything to hide.

  “Wait, Lon,” Rhyme said.

  The big detective glanced his way.

  “What if he didn’t sell the clock to the Watchmaker?”

  Sellitto nodded. “Yeah, I thought of that—what if he is the Watchmaker or a partner or buddy of his?”

  “Or maybe he’s behind the whole thing and the Watchmaker’s working for him.”

  “Thought of that too. But, hey, not to worry. I’ve got it covered.”

  With a sound track of Irish harp music pulsing in her ears, California Bureau of Investigation agent Kathryn Dance was absently watching the streets of lower Manhattan stream past, en route to Kennedy Airport.

  Christmas decorations, tiny lights and tacky cardboard.

  Lovers too. Arm in arm, gloved hands in gloved hands. Out shopping. On vacation.

  She was thinking of Bill. Wondered if he would’ve liked it here.

  Funny, the small things you remember so perfectly—even after two and a half years, which is such a huge gulf of time under other circumstances.

  Mrs. Swenson?

  This is Kathryn Dance. My husband’s name is Swenson.

  Oh. Well, this is Sergeant Wilkins. CHP.

  Why would the Highway Patrol call her at home and not refer to her as Agent Dance?

  Forever challenged in the kitchen, Dance had been making dinner, singing a Roberta Flack song, sotto voce, and trying to figure out a food processor attachment. She was making split pea soup.

  I’m afraid I have to tell you something, Mrs. Dance. It’s about your husband.

  Holding the phone in one hand, the cookbook in the other, she’d stopped moving and stared at the recipe as she took in his words. Dance could still picture the page in the cookbook perfectly, though she’d read it only that one time. She even remembered the caption under the picture. A hearty, tasty soup that you can whip up in no time. And it’s nutritious too.

  She could make the soup from memory.

  Though she never had.

  Kathryn Dance knew it would still be some time before she healed—well, “heal” was the word her grief counselor used. But that wasn’t right, because you never did heal, she’d come to realize. A scar that replaces slashed skin is still a scar. In time a numbness replaces the pain. But the flesh is forever changed.

  Dance smiled to herself now, in the cab, as she noted that she’d crossed her arms and curled up her feet. A kinesics expert knows what those gestures are all about.

  The streets seemed identical to her—dark canyons, gray and dim brown, punctuated with bright neon: ATM. Salad Bar. Nails $9.95. Such a contrast to the Monterey Peninsula, with the pine and oak and eucalyptus and sandy patches dotted with succulent groundcover. The passage of the smelly Chevy taxi was slow. The town she lived in, Pacific Grove, was a Victorian village 120 miles south of San Francisco. Populated with eighteen thousand souls and nestled between chic Carmel and hardworking Monterey, of Steinbeck’s Cannery Row fame, Pacific Grove could be traversed in the time it had taken the cab to drive four blocks.

  Gazing at the city streets, she was thinking, dark and congested, chaotic, utterly frantic, yes . . . Still, she loved New York City. (She was, after all, a people addict, and she’d never seen so many of them in one place.) Dance wondered how the children would respond to the city.

  Maggie would go for it, Dance knew without doubt. She could easily picture the ten-year-old, her pigtail sweeping back and forth as she stood in the middle of Times Square and glanced from billboards to passersby to hawkers to traffic to Broadway theaters, enthralled.

  Wes? He’d be different. He was twelve and had had a tough time since his father died. But finally his humor and confidence seemed to be returning. At last Dance had been comfortable enough to leave him with his grandparents while she went to Mexico on the kidnapper extradition, her first international trip since Bill’s death. According to Dance’s mother, he’d seemed fine when she was away and so she’d scheduled a seminar here; the NYPD and state police had been after her for a year to present one in the area.

  Still, though, she knew she’d have to keep an eye on the lean, handsome boy with curly hair and Dance’s green eyes. He continued to grow sullen at times, detached and angry. Some of it typical male adolescence, some of it the residue of losing his father at a young age. Typical behavior, her counselor had explained, nothing to worry about. But Dance felt that it might take a little time before he’d be ready for the chaos of New York, and she’d never push him. When she got home she’d ask him whether he wanted to visit. Dance couldn’t understand parents who seemed to believe they needed magic incantations or psychotherapy to find out what their children wanted. All you really needed to do was ask and listen caref
ully to their answers.

  Yep, Dance decided that, if he was comfortable, she’d bring them here on vacation next year, before Christmas. A Boston girl, born and bred, Dance’s main objection to the central California coast was the lack of seasons. The weather was lovely—but for the holidays you longed for the bite of the cold in your nose and mouth, the snowstorms, the glowing logs in the fireplace, the frost spiderwebbing the windows.

  Dance was now pulled from her reverie by her cell phone’s musical chirp, which changed frequently—a joke by the children (though the number-one rule—Never program a cop’s phone to SILENT—was adhered to).

  She looked at caller ID.

  Hm. Interesting. Yes or no?

  Kathryn Dance gave in to impulse and hit the ANSWER button.

  Chapter 10

  As he drove, the big detective fidgeted, he touched his belly, he tugged at his collar.

  Kathryn Dance took in the body language of Lon Sellitto as he drove the unmarked Crown Vic—the same official vehicle she had in California—fast through the streets of New York, grille lights flashing, no siren.

  The call she’d taken in the cab was from him, once again asking if she’d help them in the case. “I know you’ve got a flight, I know you’ve got to get home, but . . .”

  He explained that they’d discovered a possible source for the clocks left at the Watchmaker’s crime scenes and wanted her to interview the man who might’ve sold them. There was a possibility, though slight, that he had some connection with the Watchmaker and they wanted her opinion about him.

  Dance had debated only a brief moment before agreeing. She’d regretted her abrupt departure from Lincoln Rhyme’s town house earlier; Kathryn Dance hated leaving a case unfinished, even if it wasn’t hers. She’d had the cab turn around and return to Rhyme’s, where Lon Sellitto was waiting for her.

  Now, in the detective’s car, Dance asked, “It was your idea to call me, wasn’t it?”

  “How’s that?” Sellitto asked.

  “Not Lincoln’s. He’s not sure what to make of me.”

  His one-second pause was a flashing sign. Sellitto said, “You did a good job with that witness, Cobb.”

  Dance smiled. “I know I did. But he’s not sure what to make of me.”

  Another pause. “He likes his evidence.”

  “Everybody has their weaknesses.”

  The detective laughed. He hit the siren button and they sped through a red light.

  As he drove, Dance glanced at him, watched his hands and eyes, listened to his voice. She assessed: He’s truly obsessed with getting the Watchmaker, and the other cases undoubtedly sitting on his desk now are as insubstantial as steam. And, as she’d observed when he was in her class yesterday, he was dogged and savvy, with no problem taking as much time as he needed to understand a problem or to get an interrogation technique right; if anybody grew impatient with him, well, that was their problem.

  His energy’s nervous but very different from that of Amelia Sachs, who has harm issues. He grumbles out of habit but he’s essentially a very content man.

  This was something Dance did automically, the analysis. A gesture, a glance, an offhand statement became to her another piece of that miraculous puzzle that was a human being. She was usually able to shut it off when she wished—it’s no fun to be out for a Pinot Grigio or Anchor Steam beer and finding yourself analyzing your drinking buddies (and it’s a lot less fun for them). But sometimes the thoughts just flowed; this habit went with the territory of being Kathryn Dance.

  The people addict . . .

  “You have a family?” he asked.

  “Two children, yes.”

  “And what’s your husband do?”

  “I’m a widow.” Dance’s job was recognizing the effect of different tones of voice, and she now delivered these words in a particular way, both offhand and grave, which he would take to mean “I don’t want to talk about it.” A woman might grip her arm in sympathy; Sellitto did what most of his sex would: muttered a genuine but awkward “sorry” and moved on. He began talking about the evidence they’d found in the case and the leads—which were primarily nonleads. He was funny and gruff.

  Ah, Bill . . . Know what? I think you’d’ve liked this guy. Dance knew that she did.

  He told her about the store where it was likely the clocks came from. “I was saying, we don’t think this Hallerstein’s the doer. But that doesn’t mean he’s not involved. There’s a chance this could get a little, you know, hairy.”

  “I’m not armed,” Dance pointed out.

  The laws about carrying guns from one jurisdiction to another are very strict and most cops are prohibited from bringing weapons from their home state to another. Not that it mattered; Dance had never fired her Glock except on the range and hoped to be able to say the same at her retirement party.

  “I’ll stay close,” Sellitto reassured.

  Hallerstein’s Timepieces sat by itself in the middle of a gloomy block next to some wholesaler storefronts and warehouses. She eyed the place. The facade of the building was covered with scabby paint and grime but inside Hallerstein’s shop window, protected by thick steel bars, the displayed clocks and watches were immaculate.

  As they walked to the door Dance said, “If you don’t mind, Detective, you establish the credentials, then let me handle things. That okay?”

  Some cops, on their local turf, would’ve had a problem with her taking over. She’d sensed, though, that Sellitto would not (he had self-confidence to burn) but she needed to ask the question. He replied, “It’s your, you know, ball game. That’s why we called you.”

  “I’m going to say some things that sound a little odd. But it’s part of the plan. Now, if I sense he’s the perp, I’ll lean forward and intertwine my fingers.” A gesture that would make her more vulnerable and put the killer subconsciously at ease—less likely to go for a weapon. “If I think he’s innocent, I’ll take my purse off my shoulder and put it on the counter.”

  “Got it.”

  “Ready?”

  “After you.”

  Dance pushed a button and they were buzzed into the shop. It was a small place, filled with every kind of clock imaginable: tall grandfather clocks, similar but smaller tabletop clocks, ornate sculptures containing timepieces, sleek, modern-style clocks, a hundred others, as well as fifty or sixty pristine watches.

  They walked to the back, where a stocky man, balding, around sixty, was watching them cautiously from behind a counter. He was sitting in front of a dismantled clock mechanism that he was working on.

  “Afternoon,” Sellitto said.

  The man nodded. “Hello.”

  “I’m Detective Sellitto with the police department and this is Agent Dance.” Sellitto showed his ID. “You’re Victor Hallerstein?”

  “That’s right.” He pulled off a pair of glasses with an extra magnifying lens on a stalk at the side and glanced at Sellitto’s badge. He smiled, with his mouth, though not his eyes, and he shook their hands.

  “You’re the owner?” Dance asked.

  “Owner, right. Chief cook and bottle washer. I’ve had the store for ten years. Same location. Almost eleven.”

  Unnecessary information. Often a sign of deception. But it also could simply have been offered because he was uneasy at the unexpected appearance of two cops. One of the most important rules in kinesics is that a single gesture or behavior means very little. You can’t accurately judge a response in isolation but only by looking at “clusters”—for instance, the body language of crossing one’s arms has to be considered in light of the subject’s eye contact, hand movement, tone of voice and the substance of what he’s saying, as well as his choice of words.

  And to be meaningful, the behavior has to be consistent when the same stimuli are repeated.

  Kinesic analysis, Kathryn Dance would lecture, isn’t about home runs; it’s about a consistently well-played game.

  “How can I help you? Police, huh? Another robbery around the neighbo
rhood?”

  Sellitto glanced at Dance, who didn’t respond but gave a laugh and looked around. “I have never seen so many clocks in one place in my life.”

  “Been selling them for a long time.”

  “Are these all for sale?”

  “Make me an offer I can’t refuse.” A laugh. Then: “Seriously, some I wouldn’t sell. But most, sure. Hey, it’s a store, right?”

  “That one is beautiful.”

  He glanced at the one she was indicating. An Art Nouveau style in gold metal, with a simple face. “Seth Thomas, made in nineteen oh five. Stylish, dependable.”

  “Expensive?”

  “Three hundred. It’s only gold plate, mass produced. . . . Now, you want expensive?” Hallerstein pointed to a ceramic clock, in pink, blue and purple, painted with flowers. Dance found it irritatingly gaudy. “Five times as much.”

  “Ah.”

  “I see that reaction. But in the clock collecting world, one man’s tacky is another man’s art.” He smiled. The caution and concern weren’t gone but Hallerstein was slightly less defensive.

  She frowned. “At noon what do you do? Wear earplugs?”

  A laugh. “Most of them, you can shut the chimes off. The cuckoos’re the ones that drive me crazy. So to speak.”

  She asked a few more questions about his business, filing away a library of gestures and glances and tones and words—establishing the baseline for his behavior.

  Finally, keeping her tone conversational, she asked, “Sir, we’d like to know: Did someone recently buy two clocks like this one?” She showed him the picture of one of the Arnold Products clocks left at the crime scenes. Her eyes scanned him as he stared at the photo, his face neutral. She decided he was studying it for too long, an indication that his mind was engaged in a debate.

  “Can’t say I recall. I sell a lot of clocks, believe me.”

  Faulty memory—a flag for the stress state of denial in a deceptive person, just like Ari Cobb earlier. His eyes scanned the photo again carefully, as if trying to be helpful, but his shoulder turned toward her slightly, his head dipped and his voice rose in pitch. “No, I really don’t think so. Sorry, I can’t help.”