“You can read all the details. Your father said he’d wear a wire, he’d give all the information they needed about Gallante and the other capos involved. But he’d never testify in open court. He wasn’t going to jeopardize you and your mother.”
She was staring at the medal, which swung back and forth—like a pendulum of a clock, Rhyme thought wryly.
Finally Lon Sellitto rubbed his hands together. “Listen, glad for the happy news,” he grumbled. “But how ’bout we get the hell out of here and go over to Manny’s. I could use some lunch. And, guess what? I’ll bet they pay their heating bill.”
“I’d love to,” Rhyme said, with a sincerity that he believed masked his absolute lack of desire to be outside, negotiating the icy streets in his wheelchair. “But I’m writing an op ed piece for the Times.” He nodded at his computer. “Besides, I have to wait here for the repairman.” He shook his head. “One to five.”
Thom started to say something—undoubtedly to urge Rhyme to go anyway—but it was Sachs who said, “Sorry. Other plans.”
Rhyme said, “If it involves ice and snow, I’m not interested.” He supposed she and the girl, Pammy Willoughby, were planning another outing with the girl’s adoptee, Jackson the Havanese.
But Amelia Sachs apparently had a different agenda. “It does,” she said. “Involve snow and ice, I mean.” She laughed and kissed him on the mouth. “But what it doesn’t involve is you.”
“Thank God,” Lincoln Rhyme said, blowing a stream of wispy breath toward the ceiling and turning back to the computer screen.
“You.”
“Hey, Detective, how you doing?” Amelia Sachs asked.
Art Snyder gazed at her from the doorway of his bungalow. He looked better than when she’d seen him last—when he was lying in the backseat of his van. He wasn’t any less angry, though. His red eyes were fixed on hers.
But when your profession involves getting shot at from time to time, a few glares mean nothing. Sachs gave a smile. “I just came by to say thanks.”
“Yeah, for what?” He held a coffee mug that clearly didn’t contain coffee. She saw that a number of bottles had reappeared on the sideboard. She noted too that none of the Home Depot projects had progressed.
“We closed the St. James case.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“Kind of cold out here, Detective,” she said.
“Honey?” A stocky woman with short brown hair and a cheerful, resilient face called from the kitchen doorway.
“Just somebody from department.”
“Well, invite her in. I’ll make coffee.”
“She’s a busy lady,” Snyder said sourly. “Running all over town, doing all kinds of things, asking questions. She probably can’t stay.”
“I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
“Art! Let her in.”
He sighed, turned and walked inside, leaving Sachs to follow him and close the door herself. She dropped her coat on a chair.
Snyder’s wife joined them. The women shook hands. “Give her the comfy chair, Art,” she scolded.
Sachs sat in the well-worn Barcalounger, Snyder on the couch, which sighed under his weight. He left the volume up on the TV, which displayed a frantic, high-definition basketball game.
His wife brought two cups of coffee.
“None for me,” Snyder said, looking at the mug.
“I’ve already poured it. You want me to throw it out? Waste good coffee?” She left it on the table beside him and returned to the kitchen, where garlic was frying.
Sachs sipped the strong coffee in silence, Snyder staring at ESPN. His eyes followed a basketball from its launchpad outside the three-point line; his fist clenched minutely when it swished in.
A commercial came on. He changed channels to celebrity poker.
Sachs remembered that Kathryn Dance had mentioned the power of silence in getting somebody to talk. She sat, sipping, looking at him, not saying a word.
Finally, irritated, Snyder asked, “The St. James thing?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I read it was Dennis Baker behind it. And the deputy mayor.”
“Yep.”
“I met Baker a few times. Seemed okay. Him being on the bag surprised me.” Concern crossed Snyder’s face. “Homicides too? Sarkowski and that other guy?”
She nodded. “And an attempt.” She didn’t share that she herself had been the potential victim.
He shook his head. “Money’s one thing. But offing people . . . that’s a whole different ball game.”
Amen.
Snyder asked, “Was one of perps that guy I told you about? Had a place in Maryland or something?”
She figured that he deserved some credit. “That was Wallace. But it wasn’t a place. It was a thing.” Sachs explained about Wallace’s boat.
He gave a sour laugh. “No kidding. The Maryland Monroe? That’s a pisser.”
Sachs said, “Might not’ve broken the case if you hadn’t helped.”
Snyder had a millisecond of satisfaction. Then he remembered he was mad. He made a point of rising, with a sigh, and filling his mug with more whiskey. He sat down again. His coffee remained untouched. He channel-surfed some more.
“Can I ask you something?”
“I can stop you?” he muttered.
“You said you knew my father. Not many people’re still around who did. I just wanted to ask you about him.”
“The Sixteenth Avenue Club?”
“Nope. Don’t want to know about that.”
Snyder said, “He was lucky he got away.”
“Sometimes you dodge the bullet.”
“At least he cleaned up his act later. Heard he never got into any trouble after that.”
“You said you worked with him. He didn’t talk much about his job. I always wondered what it was like back then. Thought I’d write down a few things.”
“For his grandkids?”
“Something like that.”
Reluctantly Snyder said, “We never were partners.”
“But you knew him.”
A hesitation. “Yeah.”
“Just tell me: What was the story on that commander . . . the crazy one? I always wanted to know the scoop.”
“Which crazy one?” Snyder scoffed. “There were plenty.”
“The one who sent the tactical team to the wrong apartment?”
“Oh. Caruthers?”
“I think that was him. Dad was one of the portables holding off the hostage-taker until ESU found the right place.”
“Yeah, yeah. I was on that. What an asshole, Caruthers. The putz . . . Thank God nobody was hurt. Oh, and that was the same day he forgot the batteries in his bullhorn. . . . One other thing about him: He’d send his boots out to be polished. He’d have the rookies do it, you know. And he’d tip ’em, like, a nickel. I mean, tipping uniforms is weird to start. But then five goddamn cents?”
The TV volume came down a few bars. Snyder laughed. “Hey, you wanta hear one story?”
“You bet.”
“Well, your dad and me and a bunch of us, off duty, were going to the Garden, see a fight or game or something. And this kid comes up with a zip gun—you know what that is?”
She did. She said she didn’t.
“Like a homemade gun. Holds a single twenty-two shell. And this poor fuck mugs us, you can believe it. He sticks us up right in the middle of Three-four Street. We’re handing over wallets. Then your dad drops his billfold, accidental on purpose, you know what I’m saying? And the kid bends down to pick it up. When he stands up he shits—he’s staring right into the muzzles of our pieces, four Smitties, cocked and ready to unload. The look on that kid’s face . . . He said, ‘Guess it ain’t my day.’ Is that classic or what? ‘Guess it ain’t my day.’ Man, we laughed all night about that. . . .” His face broke into a smile. “Oh, and one other thing . . .”
As he talked, Sachs nodded and encouraged him. In reality she knew many of these stories. Herman Sachs wasn’
t the least reluctant to talk to his daughter about his job. They’d spend hours in the garage, working on a transmission or fuel pump, while stories of a cop’s life on the streets reeled past—planting the seeds for her own future.
But of course she wasn’t here to learn family history. No, this was simply an officer-needs-assistance call, a 10-13 of the heart. Sachs had decided that former detective Art Snyder wasn’t going down. If his supposed friends didn’t want to see him because he’d helped nail the St. James crew, then she’d set him up with plenty of cops who would: herself, Sellitto, Rhyme and Ron Pulaski, Fred Dellray, Roland Bell, Nancy Simpson, Frank Rettig, a dozen others.
She asked him more questions and he replied—sometimes eagerly, sometimes with irritation, sometimes distracted, but always giving her something. A couple of times Snyder rose and refilled his mug with liquor and frequently he’d glance at his watch and then at her, his meaning clear: Don’t you have someplace else to be?
But she just sat back comfortably in the Barcalounger, asked her questions and even told a few war stories of her own. Amelia Sachs wasn’t going anywhere; she had all the time in the world.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Authors are only as good as the friends and fellow professionals around them, and I’m extremely fortunate to be surrounded by a truly wonderful ensemble: Will and Tina Anderson, Alex Bonham, Louise Burke, Robby Burroughs, Britt Carlson, Jane Davis, Julie Reece Deaver, John Gilstrap, Cathy Gleason, Jamie Hodder-Williams, Kate Howard, Emma Longhurst, Diana Mackay, Joshua Martino, Carolyn Mays, Tara Parsons, Seba Pezzani, Carolyn Reidy, Ornella Robbiati, David Rosenthal, Marysue Rucci, Deborah Schneider, Vivienne Schuster, Brigitte Smith, Kevin Smith and Alexis Taines.
Special gratitude, as always, to Madelyn Warcholik.
Those interested in the subject of watchmaking and watch collecting will enjoy Michael Korda’s compact and lyrical Marking Time.
Turn the page for an excerpt from
XO
Featuring body language expert Agent Kathryn Dance, the star of four novels by internationally bestselling Master of the Mind Game Jeffery Deaver
Available June 2012 as an e-book from Simon & Schuster
Subject: Re: You’re the Best!!!
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
2 January 10:32 a.m.
Hey there,
Edwin—
Thanks for your email! I’m so glad you liked my latest album! Your support means the world to me. Be sure you go to my website and sign up to get my newsletter and learn about new releases and upcoming concerts, and don’t forget to follow me on Facebook and Twitter.
And keep an eye out for the mail. I sent you that autographed photo you requested!
XO,
Kayleigh
* * *
Subject: Unbelievable!!!!!
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
3 September 5:10 a.m.
Hi, Kayleigh:
I am totally blown away. I’m rendered speechless. And, you know me pretty good by now—for me to be speechless, that’s something!! Anyway, here’s the story: I downloaded your new album last night and listened to “Your Shadow.” Whoahhh! It’s without doubt the best song I have ever heard. I mean of anything ever written. I even like it better than “It’s Going to Be Different This Time.” I’ve told you nobody’s ever expressed how I feel about loneliness and life and well everything better than you. And that song does that totally. But more important I can see what you’re saying, your plea for help. It’s all clear now. Don’t worry. You’re not alone, Kayleigh!!
I’ll be your shadow. Forever.
XO, Edwin
* * *
Subject: Fwd: Unbelievable!!!!!
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
3 September 10:34 a.m.
Mr. Sharp:
Ms. Alicia Sessions, personal assistant to our clients Kayleigh Towne and her father, Bishop Towne, forwarded us your email of this morning. You have sent more than 50 emails and letters since we contacted you two months ago, urging you not to have any contact with Ms. Towne or any of her friends and family. We are extremely troubled that you have found her private email address (which has been changed, I should tell you), and are looking into possible violations of state and federal laws regarding how you obtained such address.
Once again, we must tell you that we feel your behavior is completely inappropriate and possibly actionable. We urge you in the strongest terms possible to heed this warning. As we’ve said repeatedly, Ms. Towne’s security staff and local law enforcement officials have been notified of your repeated, intrusive attempts to contact her and we are fully prepared to take whatever steps are necessary to put an end to this alarming behavior.
Samuel King, Esq.
Crowell, Smith & Wendall, Attorneys-at-Law
* * *
Subject: See you soon!!!
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
5 September 11:43 p.m.
Hi, Kayleigh—
Got your new email address. I know what they’re up to but DON’T worry, it’ll be all right.
I’m lying in bed, listening to you right now. I feel like I’m literally your shadow. . . And you’re mine. You are so wonderful!
I don’t know if you had a chance to think about it—you’re sooooo busy, I know!—but I’ll ask again—if you wanted to send me some of your hair that’d be so cool. I know you haven’t cut it for ten years and four months (it’s one of those things that makes you so beautiful!!!) but maybe there’s one from your brush. Or better yet your pillow. I’ll treasure it forever.
Can’t WAIT for the concert next Friday. C U soon.
Yours forever,
XO, Edwin
Chapter 1
THE HEART OF a concert hall is people.
And when the vast space is dim and empty, as this one was at the moment, a venue can bristle with impatience, indifference.
Even hostility.
Okay, rein in that imagination, Kayleigh Towne told herself. Stop acting like a kid. Standing on the wide, scuffed stage of the Fresno Conference Center’s main hall, she surveyed the place once more, bringing her typically hypercritical eye to the task of preparing for Friday’s concert, considering and reconsidering lighting and stage movements and where the members of the band should stand and sit. Where best to walk out near, though not into, the crowd and touch hands and blow kisses. Where best acoustically to place the foldback speakers—the monitors that were pointed toward the band so they could hear themselves without echoes or distortion. Many performers now used earbuds for this; Kayleigh liked the immediacy of traditional foldbacks.
There were a hundred other details to think about. She believed that every performance should be perfect, more than perfect. Every audience deserved the best. One hundred ten percent.
She had, after all, grown up in Bishop Towne’s shadow.
An unfortunate choice of word, Kayleigh now reflected.
I’ll be your shadow. Forever. . . .
Back to the planning. This show had to be different from the previous one here, about eight months ago. A retooled program was especially important since many of the fans would have regularly attended her hometown concerts and she wanted to make sure they got something unexpected. That was one thing about Kayleigh Towne’s music; her audiences weren’t as big as some but were loyal as golden retrievers. They knew her lyrics cold, knew her guitar licks, knew her moves onstage and laughed at her shtick before she finished the lines. They lived and breathed her performances, hung on her words, knew her bio and likes and dislikes.
And some wanted to know much more . . .
With that thought, her heart and gut clenched as if she’d stepped into Hensley Lake in January.
Thinking about him, of course.
Then she froze, gasping. Yes, someo
ne was watching her from the far end of the hall! Where none of the crew would be.
Shadows were moving.
Or was it her imagination? Or maybe her eyesight? Kayleigh had been given perfect pitch and an angelic voice but God had decided enough was enough and skimped big-time on the vision. She squinted, adjusted her glasses. She was sure that someone was hiding, rocking back and forth in the doorway that led to the storage area for the concession stands.
Then the movement stopped.
She decided it wasn’t movement at all and never had been. Just a hint of light, a suggestion of shading.
Though still, she heard a series of troubling clicks and snaps and groans—from where, she couldn’t tell—and felt a chill of panic bubble up her spine.
Him . . .
The man who had written her hundreds of emails and letters, intimate, delusional, speaking of the life they could share together, asking for a strand of hair, a fingernail clipping. The man who had somehow gotten near enough at a dozen shows to take close-up pictures of Kayleigh, without anyone ever seeing him. The man who had possibly—though it had never been proven—slipped into the band buses or motor homes on the road and stolen articles of her clothing, underwear included.
The man who had sent her dozen of pictures of himself: shaggy hair, fat, in clothing that looked unwashed. Never obscene but, curiously, the images were all the more disturbing for their familiarity. They were the shots a boyfriend would text her from a trip.
Him . . .
Her father had recently hired a personal bodyguard, a huge man with a round, bullet-shaped head and an occasional curly wire sprouting from his ear to make clear what his job was. But Darthur Morgan was outside at the moment, making the rounds and checking cars. His security plan also included a nice touch: simply being visible so that potential stalkers would turn around and leave rather than risk a confrontation with a 250-pound man who looked like a rapper with an attitude (which, sure enough, he’d been in his teen years).
She scanned the recesses of the hall again—the best place he might stand and watch her. Then gritting her teeth in anger at her fear and mostly at her failure to tame the uneasiness and distraction, she thought, Get. Back. To. Work.
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 133
