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

by Deaver, Jeffery

  Tony Parsons was sitting across from Kathryn Dance in a coffee shop, his shopping cart of groceries beside them.

  He squinted and shook his head. “I’ve been trying to remember but I really can’t think of anything else.” He grinned. “Think you wasted your money.” He lifted his coffee cup.

  “Well, we’ll give it a shot.” Dance knew he had more information. Her guess was that he’d spoken without thinking—oh, how interrogators love impulsive subjects—and then realized that the man he’d seen might be a killer, maybe even the one who’d committed those horrible murders at the pier and in the alleyway the previous day. Dance knew that people who are happy to give statements about cheating neighbors and shoplifting teens grow forgetful when the crimes turn capital.

  Maybe a tough nut, Dance reflected, but that didn’t bother her. She loved challenges (the exhilaration she often felt when a subject finally confessed was always dulled by the thought that the signature on his statement marked the end of another verbal battle).

  She poured milk into her coffee and looked longingly at a piece of apple pie sitting in a display case at the counter. Four hundred and fifty calories. Oh, well. She turned back to Parsons.

  He poured some extra sugar into his coffee and stirred it. “You know, maybe if we just talked about it for a bit I could remember something else.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  He nodded. “Now, then, let’s have us a good old heart-to-heart.”

  And gave her a big smile.

  Chapter 26

  She was his consolation prize.

  She was his present from Gerald Duncan.

  She was the killer’s way of saying he was sorry and meaning it, not like Vincent’s mother.

  It was also a good way to slow down the police—raping and killing one of their own. Duncan had mentioned the redheaded policewoman working at the site of the second murder and suggested Vincent take her (oh, yes, please . . . red hair, like Sally Anne’s). But, watching the police at Lucy Richter’s apartment in Greenwich Village from the Buick, he and Duncan had realized there was no way to get to the redhead; she was never by herself. Yet the other woman, a plainclothed detective or something, started up the street by herself, looking for witnesses, it seemed.

  Duncan and Vincent had gone into a discount store and bought the handcart, a new winter jacket, and fifty dollars’ worth of soap, junk food and soda to fill the cart with. (Somebody wheeling around groceries isn’t suspicious—his friend, always, always thinking.) The plan was for Vincent to start trolling the streets of Greenwich Village until he found the second cop, or she found him, then he’d lead her to an abandoned building a block from Lucy Richter’s place.

  Vincent would take her to the basement and he could have her for as long as he wanted, while Duncan would take care of the next victim.

  Duncan had then studied Vincent’s face. “Would you have a problem killing her, the policewoman?”

  Afraid he’d disappoint his friend, who was doing him such a wonderful favor, Vincent had said, “No.”

  But Duncan obviously knew it wasn’t true. “Tell you what—just leave her in the basement. Tie her up. After I’m through in Midtown, I’ll drive down there and take care of her myself.”

  Vincent had felt a lot better, hearing that.

  The hunger raged through him now as he looked over Kathryn Dance, sitting only a few feet from him. Her braid, her smooth throat, her long fingers. She wasn’t heavy but she had a good figure, not like those skinny model sorts you saw a lot of in the city. Who’d want somebody like that?

  Her figure made him hungry.

  Her green eyes made him hungry.

  Even her name, Kathryn, made him hungry. For some reason it seemed to fall into the same category of name as Sally Anne. He couldn’t say why. Maybe it was old-fashioned. Also, he liked the way she looked hungrily at the desserts. She’s just like me! He could hardly wait to get her facedown in the building up the street.

  He sipped the coffee. “So, you were saying you’re from California?” Vincent—well, Helpful Tony Parsons—asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Pretty, I’ll bet.”

  “Is, yes. Parts of it. Now think back to what you saw exactly. That man running? Tell me about him.”

  Vincent knew he’d have to stay focused—at least until they were alone at the abandoned building. “Be careful,” the killer had said, briefing him. “Be coy. Pretend that you know something about me but you don’t want to talk. Be hesitant. That’s how a real witness would be.”

  Now he told her—coyly and hesitantly—a few more things about the man running up the street and added to the vague description of Gerald Duncan, though it was pretty much what the police knew anyway, since they had that computer picture of him (he’d have to tell Duncan about that). She jotted some notes.

  “Any unusual characteristics?”

  “Hmm. Don’t remember any. Like I said, I wasn’t very close.”

  “Any weapons?”

  “Don’t think so. What exactly did he do?”

  “There was an attempted assault.”

  “Oh, no. Anybody hurt?”

  “No, fortunately.”

  Or un-, thought Clever Vincent/Tony.

  “Was he carrying anything?” Agent Dance asked.

  Keep it simple, he reminded himself. Don’t let her trip you up.

  He frowned thoughtfully and hesitated. Then he said, “You know, he might’ve been. Carrying something, I mean. A bag, I think. I couldn’t really see. He was going pretty fast. . . .” He stopped speaking.

  Kathryn cocked her head. “You were going to say something else?”

  “I’m sorry I’m not more help. I know it’s important.”

  “That’s okay,” the woman said reassuringly, and for a moment Vincent had a pang of guilt about what was going to happen to her in a few minutes.

  Then the hunger told him not to feel guilty. It was normal to have the urge.

  If we don’t eat, we die. . . .

  Don’t you agree, Agent Dance?

  They sipped coffee. Vincent told her a few other tidbits about the suspect.

  She was chatting like a friend. Finally he decided the time was right. He said, “Look, there is something else. . . . I was kind of scared before. You know, I’m around here every day. What if he comes back? He might figure out I said something about him.”

  “We can keep it anonymous. And we’ll protect you. I promise.”

  A clever hesitation. “Really?”

  “You bet. We’ll have a policeman guarding you.”

  Now, there’s an interesting idea. Can I have the redhead?

  He said to Dance, “Okay, I saw where he ran to. It was the back door of a building up the street. He ran inside.”

  “The door was unlocked? Or did he have a key?”

  “Unlocked, I think. I’ll show you if you want.”

  “That’d be very helpful. Are you through?” She nodded at the cup.

  He drained the coffee. “Am now.”

  She flipped closed her notebook, which he’d have to remember to get from her after he was finished.

  “Thanks, Agent Dance.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  As he wheeled the groceries outside, the agent paid the check. She joined him and they started up the sidewalk where he directed.

  “Is it always this cold in New York in December?”

  “A lot of times, yep.”

  “I’m freezing.”

  Really? You look plenty hot to me.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, slowing down and looking at the street signs. She squinted against the glare. She paused and jotted in her notebook, reciting as she wrote. “The perp was recently in this location, Sherman Street in Greenwich Village.” She looked around. “Went up alley between Sherman and Barrow. . . .” A glance at Vincent. “What side of the street’s the alley on? North, south? I need to be accurate.”

  Ah, she’s metic
ulous too.

  He thought for a moment, disoriented by the hunger more than the bitter cold. “That’d be southeast.”

  She looked at her notebook, laughing. “Can hardly read it—the shivering. This cold is too much. I can’t wait to get back to California.”

  And you’ll be waiting a purty long time, missy . . .

  They resumed walking.

  “You have a family?” she asked.

  “Yep. A wife and two kids.”

  “I have two children. Son and daughter.”

  Vincent nodded, wondering: How old is the daughter?

  “So this’s the alley?” she asked.

  “Yep. There’s where he ran to.” Pulling the grocery cart behind him, he started into the alley that would lead to their love nest, the abandoned building. He felt a painful erection.

  Vincent reached into his pocket and gripped the handle of his knife. No, he couldn’t kill her. But if she fought back, he’d have to protect himself.

  Slash the eyes . . .

  It’d be gross but her bloody face wouldn’t be a problem for Vincent; he preferred them on their bellies anyway.

  They were walking deeper into the passageway now. Vincent looked around and saw the building, forty or fifty feet away.

  Dance paused again, opened the notebook. She recited what she wrote: “The alley runs behind six, no, seven residential buildings. There are four Dumpsters here. The surface of the alley is asphalt. The perpetrator ran this way, going south.” Gloves back on, over her quivering fingers, which ended in deliciously red nails.

  The hunger was consuming Vincent. He felt himself withering away. He gripped the knife in a tense hand, breathing quickly.

  She paused once more.

  Now! Take her.

  He started to pull the knife from his pocket.

  But the bark of a siren cut through the air, coming from the other end of the alley. He glanced at it in shock.

  And then he felt the gun muzzle touch the back of his head.

  Agent Dance was shouting, “Raise your hands. Now!” Gripping his shoulder.

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  She shoved the gun harder into his skull.

  No, no, no! He let go of the knife and lifted his arms.

  What was going on?

  The police car skidded to a stop in front of them, another right behind it. Four huge cops jumped out.

  No . . . Oh, no . . .

  “On your face,” one of them ordered. “Do it!”

  But he couldn’t move, he was so shocked.

  Then Dance was stepping back as police officers surrounded him, pulling him to the ground.

  “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t!”

  “You!” one of the men cried. “On your belly—now.”

  “But it’s cold, it’s dirty! And I haven’t done anything!”

  They flung him to the hard ground. He grunted as the breath was knocked from his body.

  It was just like with Sally Anne, all over again.

  You, fat boy, don’t fucking move! Pervert! . . .

  No, no, no!

  Hands were all over him, grappling. He felt the pain as his arms were pulled taut behind him and cuffs were ratcheted on. He was searched, pockets turned inside out.

  “Got an ID, got a knife.”

  It was now, it was thirteen years ago, Vincent could hardly tell.

  “I didn’t do anything! What’s this all about?”

  One of the officers said to Agent Dance, “We heard you loud and clear. You didn’t need to go into the alley with him.”

  “I was afraid he’d bolt. I wanted to stay with him as long as I could.”

  What was going on? Vincent wondered. What did she mean?

  Agent Dance glanced at the officer and nodded toward Vincent. “He was doing a good job until we got into the diner. Once we sat down I knew he was faking.”

  “No, you’re crazy. I—”

  She turned to Vincent. “Your accent and expressions were inconsistent and your body language told me you weren’t really having a conversation with me at all. You had another agenda, trying to manipulate me for some reason. . . . Which turned out to be getting me alone in the alley.”

  She explained that when she’d paid the check she’d slipped her phone out of her pocket and hit REDIAL, calling an NYPD detective she’d been working with. She’d whispered briefly what she’d concluded and had him send officers to the area. She’d kept the phone line open, hidden under her notebook.

  That’s why she was reciting the names of the streets out loud; she was giving them directions.

  Vincent then looked at her hands. She caught his eye. And held up the pen she’d been writing with. “Yep. That’s my gun.”

  He looked back at the other cops. “I don’t know what’s going on here. This is bullshit.”

  One of them said, “Listen, why don’t you save your breath. Just before she called we got a report that the getaway driver in the attack earlier was back in the neighborhood with a cart of groceries. He was a fat, white guy.”

  Her name’s Sally Anne, fat boy. She escaped and called the police and told us all about you. . . .

  “That’s not me! I haven’t done anything. You’re wrong. You’re so wrong.”

  “Yeah,” one of the uniformed cops said with an amused expression, “we hear that a lot. Let’s go.”

  They gripped him by the upper arms and hauled him roughly to the squad car. He heard Gerald Duncan’s voice in his mind.

  I’m sorry. I’ve let you down. I’ll make it up to you. . . .

  And something hardened within pudgy Vincent Reynolds. He decided that nothing they could do to him would ever make him betray his friend.

  The large, pear-shaped man sat next to the front window of Lincoln Rhyme’s laboratory, hands cuffed behind him.

  His driver’s license and DMV records revealed that he wasn’t Tony Parsons but Vincent Reynolds, a twenty-eight-year-old word-processing operator who lived in New Jersey and worked for a half dozen temp agencies, none of which knew much about him, other than what the basic employment checks and résumé verification had revealed; he was a model, if unmemorable, employee.

  With a mix of anger and uneasiness, Vincent alternated glances between the floor and the officers around him—Rhyme, Sachs, Dance, Baker and Sellitto.

  There were no priors or warrants out on him and a search of his shabby apartment in New Jersey revealed no obvious connection to the Watchmaker. Nor evidence of a lover, close friends or parents. The officers found a letter he was writing to his sister in Detroit. Sellitto got her number from Michigan State Police and called. He left a message for her to call them.

  He was working Monday night, at the time of the pier and Cedar Street killings, but he’d taken time off since then.

  Mel Cooper had emailed a digital picture of him to Joanne Harper at the florist shop. The woman reported that he did resemble the man staring in her window, but she couldn’t be certain, because of the glare, the dirty glass in the front windows of her workshop and his sunglasses.

  Though they suspected him of being the Watchmaker’s accomplice, the evidence linking him to the scenes was sketchy. The shoe print from the garage where the SUV had been abandoned was the same size as his shoes, thirteen, but there were no distinguishing marks to make a clear match. Among the groceries—which Rhyme suspected he’d bought as a cover to get close to Dance or another investigator—were chips, cookies and other junk food. But these packages were unopened and a search of his clothes revealed no crumbs that might specifically match what had been recovered in the SUV.

  They were holding him only for possession of an illegal knife and interfering with a police operation—the usual charge when a phony witness comes forward.

  Still, a good portion of City Hall and Police Plaza wanted to pull an Abu Ghraib on Vincent and browbeat or threaten him until he squealed. This was Dennis Baker’s preference; the lieutenant had been getting pressure from City Hall to f
ind the perp.

  But Kathryn Dance said, “Doesn’t work. They curl up like rolly bugs and give you garbage.” She added, “For the record, torture’s very inefficient at getting accurate information.”

  And so Rhyme and Baker had asked her to handle Vincent’s interview. They needed to find the Watchmaker as fast as possible and, if rubber hoses were out, they wanted an expert.

  The California special agent now drew the curtains closed and sat down across from Vincent, nothing between them. She scooted the chair forward until she was about three feet away. Rhyme supposed this was to get into his space and help break down his resistance. But he also realized that if Vincent flipped out he could lunge forward and injure her severely with his head or teeth.

  She was undoubtedly aware of this too but gave no indication of feeling in danger. She offered a reserved smile and said calmly, “Hello, Vincent. I know you’ve been informed of your rights and you’ve agreed to talk to us. We appreciate that.”

  “Absolutely. Anything I can do. This is a big . . .” he shrugged . . . “misunderstanding, you know.”

  “Then we’ll get everything straightened out. I just need some basic information first.” She asked his full name, address, age, where he worked, if he’d ever been arrested.

  He frowned. “I already told him this.” A look at Sellitto.

  “I’m sorry. Left hand, right hand, you know. If you wouldn’t mind going over it again.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Rhyme figured that since he was giving her verified facts, she’d be creating a baseline kinesic reading. Now that Kathryn Dance had altered the criminalist’s opinion about interviewing and witnesses, he was intrigued by the process.

  Dance nodded pleasantly as she jotted down Vincent’s responses and thanked him from time to time for his cooperation. Her politeness confused Rhyme. He himself would be a hell of a lot tougher.

  Vincent grimaced. “Look, I can, you know, talk to you for as long as you want. But I hope you sent somebody to look for that man I saw. You don’t want him to get away. I’m worried about that. I try to help, and look what happens—this’s the story of my life.”

  Though what he’d told Dance and the officers on the scene about the suspect wasn’t helpful. The building he claimed the killer disappeared into showed no signs that anyone had been inside recently.