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

by Deaver, Jeffery

  “Do you know what we have to thank for precise time-telling?”

  The professor is at the lectern, thought Clever Mr. V, having replaced Hungry Mr. V for the moment, now that he’d had his chocolate.

  “No.”

  “Trains.”

  “How come?”

  “When people’s entire lives were limited to a single town they could start the day whenever they decided. Six A.M. in London might be six eighteen in Oxford. Who cared? And if you did have to go to Oxford, you rode your horse and it didn’t matter if the time was off. But with a railroad, if one train doesn’t leave the station on time and the next one comes barreling through, well, the results are going to be unpleasant.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Duncan turned away from the display. Vincent was hoping they’d leave now, go downtown and get Joanne. But Duncan walked across the room to a large case of thick glass. It was behind a velvet rope. A big guard stood next to it.

  Duncan stared at the object inside, a gold-and-silver box about two feet square, eight inches deep. The front was filled with a dozen dials that were stamped with spheres and pictures of what looked like the planets and stars and comets, along with numbers and weird letters and symbols, like in astrology. The box itself was carved with images too and was covered with jewels.

  “What is it?” Vincent asked.

  “The Delphic Mechanism,” Duncan explained. “It’s from Greece, more than fifteen hundred years old. It’s on tour around the world.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Many things. See those dials there? They calculate the movement of the sun and moon and planets.” He glanced at Vincent. “It actually shows the earth and planets moving around the sun, which was revolutionary, and heretical, for the time—a thousand years before Copernicus’s model of the solar system. Amazing.”

  Vincent remembered something about Copernicus from high school science—though what he remembered most was a girl in the class, Rita Johansson. The recollection he enjoyed most was of the pudgy brunette, late one autumn afternoon, lying on her tummy in a field near the school, a burlap bag over her head, and saying in a polite voice, “Please, no, please don’t.”

  “And look at that dial,” Duncan said, interrupting Vincent’s very pleasant memory.

  “The silver one?”

  “It’s platinum. Pure platinum.”

  “That’s more valuable than gold, right?”

  Duncan didn’t answer. “It shows the lunar calendar. But a very special one. The Gregorian calendar—the one we use—has three hundred and sixty-five days and irregular months. The lunar calendar’s more consistent than the Gregorian—the months are always the same length. But they don’t correspond to the sun, which means that the lunar month that starts on, say, April fifth of this year will fall on a different day next year. But the Delphic Mechanism shows a lunisolar calendar, which combines the two. I hate the Gregorian and the pure lunar.” There was passion in his voice. “They’re sloppy.”

  He hates them? Vincent was thinking.

  “But the lunisolar—it’s elegant, harmonious. Beautiful.”

  Duncan nodded at the face of the Delphic Mechanism. “A lot of people don’t believe it’s authentic because scientists can’t duplicate its calculations without computers. They can’t believe that somebody built such a sophisticated calculator that long ago. But I’m convinced it’s real.”

  “Is it worth a lot?”

  “It’s priceless.” After a moment he added, “There’ve been dozens of rumors about it—that it contained answers to the secrets of life and the universe.”

  “You think that?”

  Duncan continued to stare at the light glistening off the metal. “In a way. Does it do anything supernatural? Of course not. But it does something important: It unifies time. It helps us understand that it’s an endless river. The Mechanism doesn’t treat a second any differently than it does a millennium. And somehow it was able to measure all of those intervals with nearly one hundred percent accuracy.” He pointed at the box. “The ancients thought of time as a separate force, sort of a god itself, with powers of its own. The Mechanism is an emblem of that view, you could say. I think we’d all be better off looking at time that way: how a single second can be as powerful as a bullet or knife or bomb. It can affect events a thousand years in the future. Can change them completely.”

  The great scheme of things . . .

  “That’s something.”

  Though Vincent’s tone must have revealed that he didn’t share Duncan’s enthusiasm.

  But this was apparently all right. The killer looked at his pocket watch. He gave a rare laugh. “You’ve had enough of my crazy rambling. Let’s go visit our flower girl.”

  Patrolman Ron Pulaski’s life was this: his wife and children, his parents and twin brother, his three-bedroom detached house in Queens and the small pleasures of cookouts with buddies and their wives (he made his own barbecue sauce and salad dressings), jogging, scraping together babysitter money and sneaking off with his wife to the movies, working in a backyard so small that his twin brother called it a grass throw rug.

  Simple stuff. So Pulaski was pretty uneasy meeting Jordan Kessler, Benjamin Creeley’s partner. When the coin toss in Sachs’s Camaro earned him the businessman, rather than the bartender, he’d called and arranged to see Kessler, who’d just returned from a business trip. (His jet, meaning really his, not a, jet, had just landed, and his driver was bringing him into the city.)

  He now wished he’d picked the bartender. Big money made him uneasy.

  Kessler was at a client’s office in lower Manhattan and wanted to postpone seeing Pulaski. But Sachs had told him to be insistent and he had been. Kessler agreed to meet him in the Starbucks on the ground floor of his client’s building.

  The rookie walked into the lobby of Penn Energy Transfer, quite a place—glass and chrome and filled with marble sculptures. On the wall were huge photographs of the company’s pipelines, painted different colors. For factory accessories they were pretty artistic. Pulaski really liked those pictures.

  In the Starbucks a man squinted the cop’s way and waved him over. Pulaski bought himself a coffee—the businessman already had some—and they shook hands. Kessler was a solid man, whose thin hair was distractingly combed over a shiny crown of scalp. He wore a dark blue shirt, starched smooth as balsa wood. The collar and cuffs were white and the cuff links rich gold knots.

  “Thanks for meeting down here,” Kessler said. “Not sure what a client would think about a policeman visiting me on the executive floor.”

  “What do you do for them?”

  “Ah, the life of an accountant. Never rests.” Kessler sipped his coffee, crossed his legs and said in a low voice, “It’s terrible, Ben’s death. Just terrible. I couldn’t believe it when I heard. . . . How’re his wife and son taking it?” Then he shook his head and answered his own question. “How would they be taking it? They’re devastated, I’m sure. Well, what can I do for you, Officer?”

  “Like I explained, we’re just following up on his death.”

  “Sure, whatever I can do to help.”

  Kessler didn’t seem nervous to be talking to a police officer. And there was nothing condescending in the way he talked to a man who made a thousand times less money than he did.

  “Did Mr. Creeley have a drug problem?”

  “Drugs? Not that I ever saw. I know he took pain pills for his back at one time. But that was a while ago. And I don’t think I ever saw him, what would you say? I never saw him impaired. But one thing: We didn’t socialize much. Kind of had different personalities. We ran our business together and we’ve known each other for six years but we kept our private lives, well, private. Unless it was with clients we’d have dinner maybe once, twice a year.”

  Pulaski steered the conversation back on track. “What about illegal drugs?”

  “Ben? No.” Kessler laughed.

  Pulaski thought back to his questions. Sac
hs had told him to memorize them. If you kept looking at your notes, she said, it made you seem unprofessional.

  “Did he ever meet with anybody who you’d describe as dangerous, maybe someone who gave you the impression they were criminals?”

  “Never.”

  “You told Detective Sachs that he was depressed.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know what he was depressed about?”

  “Nope. Again, we didn’t talk much about personal things.” The man rested his arm on the table and the massive cuff link tapped loudly. Its cost was probably equal to Pulaski’s monthly salary.

  In Pulaski’s mind, he heard his wife telling him, Relax, honey. You’re doing fine.

  His brother chimed in with: He may have gold links but you’ve got a big fucking gun.

  “Apart from the depression, did you notice anything out of the ordinary about him lately?”

  “I did, actually. He was drinking more than usual. And he’d taken up gambling. Went to Vegas or Atlantic City a couple times. Never used to do that.”

  “Could you identify this?” Pulaski handed the businessman a copy of the images lifted from the ash that Amelia Sachs had recovered at Creeley’s house in Westchester. “It’s a financial spreadsheet or balance sheet,” the patrolman said.

  “Understand that.” A little condescending now but it seemed unintentional.

  “They were in Mr. Creeley’s possession. Do they mean anything to you?”

  “Nope. They’re hard to read. What happened to them?”

  “That’s how we found them.”

  Don’t say anything about them being burned up, Sachs had told him. Play it close to the chest, you mean, Pulaski offered, then decided he shouldn’t be using those words with a woman. He’d blushed. His twin brother wouldn’t have. They shared every gene except the one that made you shy.

  “They seem to show a lot of money.”

  Kessler looked at them again. “Not so much, just a few million.”

  Not so much.

  “Getting back to the depression. How did you know he was depressed? If he didn’t talk about it.”

  “Just moping around. Irritated a lot. Distracted. Something was definitely eating at him.”

  “Did he ever say anything about the St. James Tavern?”

  “The . . . ?”

  “A bar in Manhattan.”

  “No. I know he’d leave work early from time to time. Meet friends for drinks, I think. But he never said who.”

  “Was he ever investigated?”

  “For what?”

  “Anything illegal.”

  “No. I would’ve heard.”

  “Did Mr. Creeley have any problems with his clients?”

  “No. We had a great relationship with all of them. Their average return was three, four times the S and P Five Hundred. Who wouldn’t be happy?”

  S and P . . . Pulaski didn’t get this one. He wrote it down anyway. Then the word “happy.”

  “Could you send me a client list?”

  Kessler hesitated. “Frankly, I’d rather you didn’t contact them.” He lowered his head slightly and stared into the rookie’s eyes.

  Pulaski looked right back. He asked, “Why?”

  “Awkward. Bad for business. Like I said before.”

  “Well, sir, when you think about it, there’s nothing embarrassing about the police asking a few questions after someone’s death, is there? It is pretty much our job.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And all your clients know what happened to Mr. Creeley, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “So us following up—your clients’d expect us to.”

  “Some might, others wouldn’t.”

  “In any case, you have done something to control the situation, haven’t you? Hired a PR firm or maybe met with your clients yourself to reassure them?”

  Kessler hesitated. Then he said, “I’ll have a list put together and sent to you.”

  Yes! Pulaski thought, three-pointer! And forced himself not to smile.

  Amelia Sachs had said to save the big question till the end. “What’ll happen to Mr. Creeley’s half of the company?”

  Which contained the tiny suggestion that Kessler had murdered his partner to take over the business. But Kessler either didn’t catch this or didn’t take any offense if he did. “I’ll buy it out. Our partnership agreement provides for that. Suzanne—his wife—she’ll get fair market value of his share. It’ll be a good chunk of change.”

  Pulaski wrote that down. He gestured at the photo of the pipelines, visible though the glass door. “Your clients’re big companies like this one?”

  “Mostly we work for individuals, executives and board members.” Kessler added a packet of sugar to his coffee and stirred it. “You ever involved in business, Officer?”

  “Me?” Pulaski grinned. “Nope. I mean, worked summers for an uncle one time. But he went belly up. Well, not him. His printshop.”

  “It’s exciting to create a business and grow it into something big.” Kessler sipped the coffee, stirred it again and then leaned forward. “It’s pretty clear you think there’s something more to his death than just a suicide.”

  “We like to cover all bases.” Pulaski had no clue what he meant by that; it just came out. He thought back to the questions. The well was dry. “I think that’ll be it, sir. Appreciate your help.”

  Kessler finished his coffee. “If I can think of anything else I’ll give you a call. You have a card?”

  Pulaski handed one to the businessman, who asked, “That woman detective I talked to. What was her name again?”

  “Detective Sachs.”

  “Right. If I can’t get through to you, should I call her? Is she still working on the case?”

  “Yessir.”

  As Pulaski dictated, Kessler wrote Sachs’s name and mobile number on the back of the card. Pulaski also gave him the phone number at Rhyme’s.

  Kessler nodded. “Better get back to work.”

  Pulaski thanked him again, finished his coffee and left. One last look at the biggest of the pipeline photographs. That was really something. He wouldn’t mind getting a little one to hang up in his rec room. But he supposed a company like Penn Energy hardly had a gift shop, like Disney World.

  Chapter 12

  A heavyset woman walked into the small coffee shop. Black coat, short hair, jeans. That’s how she’d described herself. Amelia Sachs waved from a booth in the back.

  This was Gerte, the other bartender at the St. James. She was on her way to work and had agreed to meet Sachs before her shift.

  There was a no-smoking sign on the wall but the woman continued to strangle a live cigarette between her ruddy index and middle fingers. Nobody on the staff here said anything about it; professional courtesy in the restaurant world, Sachs guessed.

  The woman’s dark eyes narrowed as she read the detective’s ID.

  “Sonja said you had some questions. But she didn’t say what.” Her voice was low and rough.

  Sachs sensed that Sonja had probably told her everything. But the detective played along and gave the woman the relevant details—the ones that she could share, at least—and then showed her the picture of Ben Creeley. “He committed suicide.” No surprise in Gerte’s eyes. “And we’re looking into his death.”

  “I seen him, I guess, a couple, three times.” She looked at the menu blackboard. “I can eat for free at the St. James. But I’m going to miss dinner. Since I’m here. With you.”

  “How ’bout I buy you some food?”

  Gerte waved at the waitress and ordered.

  “You want anything?” the waitress asked Sachs.

  “You have herbal tea?”

  “If Lipton’s an herb, we got it.”

  “I’ll have that.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Gerte looked at the detective’s slim figure and gave a cynical laugh. She then asked, “So that
guy who killed himself—did he leave a family?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tough. What’s his name?”

  A question that didn’t instill confidence that Gerte would be a source of good info. And, sure enough, it turned out that she really wasn’t any more helpful than Sonja. All she recalled was that she’d seen him in the bar about once a month for the past three months. She too had the impression that he’d been hanging out with the cops in their back room but wasn’t positive. “The place is pretty busy, you know.”

  Depends on how you define busy, Sachs reflected. “You know any of the officers there personally?”

  “From the precinct? Yeah, some of them.”

  As the beverages arrived, Gerte recited a few first names, some descriptions. She didn’t know anybody’s last name. “Most of ’em who come in’re okay. Some’re shits. But ain’t that the whole world? . . . About him.” A nod at Creeley’s picture. “I remember he didn’t laugh much. He was always looking around, over his shoulder, out the windows. Nervous like.” The woman poured cream and Equal into her coffee.

  “Sonja said he had an argument the last time he came in. Do you remember any other fights?”

  “Nope.” Sipping coffee loudly. “Not while I was there.”

  “You ever see him with any drugs?”

  “Nope.”

  Useless, Sachs was thinking. This seemed like a dead end.

  The bartender drew deeply on her cigarette and shot the smoke toward the ceiling. She squinted at Sachs and gave a meaningless smile with her bright red lips. “So why you so interested in this guy?”

  “Just routine.”

  Gerte gave a knowing look and finally said, “Two guys come into the St. James and not long after that they’re both dead. And that’s routine, huh?”

  “Two?”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “No.”

  “Figured you didn’t. Otherwise you woulda said something up front.”

  “Tell me.”

  Gerte fell silent and looked off; Sachs wondered if the woman was spooked. But she was merely staring at the hamburger and fries coming in for a landing on the table.

  “Thanks, honey,” she growled. Then looked back at Sachs. “Sarkowski. Frank Sarkowski.”