Split Second f-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “Come on, Lucy, state secrets from World War Two? Something so classified you’ve got tucked in that purse that if you tell me, you’ll have to either kill me or marry me?”

  That brought an unwilling smile. “Well, we’ve already had the pre-honeymoon.”

  “It was too short. I’d like to see the squirrel nightshirt again.”

  “What was in the box is personal, so forget it,” she said, and walked beside him out of the bank. He saw a glow in her eyes, no other word for it. She was ready to kick butt. She’d found something significant, something related to what had happened twenty-two years ago. He wanted to know; he wanted to protect her. But from what?

  “You aren’t going to tell me what your grandfather placed in that box?”

  “No. Let it go, Coop.”

  “I want to help you, Lucy. Surely you know that.”

  She threw him a big, bright, utterly false smile. “Sure, Coop, but the thing is, I really don’t need any help. Hey, don’t you have to meet Sherlock, fly up to New York?”

  CHAPTER 30

  New York City

  Tuesday afternoon

  Detective Celinda Alba hated that the feds were coming, wished she could drop-kick them all in the Hudson, where she knew they’d all drown, weighted down by polluted muck or their egos. It was a homicide, and that was her business. But no, the feds had to stick their arrogant noses in it. Who cared if Bundy’s daughter had killed before in San Francisco, Chicago, Cleveland, or wherever? No one had caught her, so it didn’t matter. That woman was here in New York now, and they would deal with her, once and for all, if only the feds would let them.

  Celinda knew she was good, a veteran cop with fifteen years under her belt. She had a feel for murderers, especially weird ones like Bundy’s daughter. Bundy’s daughter—now, that was amazing. As for her partner, Henry Norris, he was still so new his cop shoes squeaked, but she knew in a couple of years his cop shoes would stomp on bad guys. People seemed to trust him immediately and trip over themselves spilling their guts to him. She’d see to it he got over this hero worship he appeared to have for the feds.

  And here they were, right here on her turf, introduced to her and Henry by Captain Slaughter. As usual, her captain looked tired and harassed, and he was giving her his cold eye, its meaning clear: Play nice. Cooperate, and don’t make waves. She’d heard it before. She shook the feds’ hands, even managed a stingy smile. She saw Henry’s mouth was open as he stared at the tall, slim woman with her curly red hair and ridiculous name. I mean, give me a break—Sherlock—and dressed all la-di-da in black pants, white shirt, black leather jacket, and black ankle boots. The dark guy standing beside her was taller than her captain, and he surely looked like he could kick your butt without breaking a sweat. She had to admit the boy was eye candy, no doubt about that, but so what? She wanted them gone. He wore black, too, as though he and the redhead were freaking twins or something, except his tie was red.

  A fed rebelling? She wondered what color his socks were. She said to her captain, “Sir, why aren’t we dealing with the New York FBI?”

  Captain Slaughter gave her a look because he knew she’d dated an agent at the New York office, and it hadn’t ended well. He guessed she’d rather have the snake she knew than ones flown in. “This comes from the top, Detective Alba. You will give Agent Sherlock and Agent McKnight whatever assistance they need.” And there was more cold eye; a buffalo wouldn’t miss that warning. When Captain Slaughter left them, Detective Alba said, “Agent Sherlock, I hear you and Agent McKnight want to interview Thomas Hurley.”

  Sherlock could feel the wave of animosity rolling off Detective Alba, wondered which of the agents at the New York field office had put her nose out of joint, but knew they obviously had because those cowboys put everyone’s nose out of joint, including their superiors in Washington. As for Captain Slaughter, he was wary, afraid they were going to treat him and his people the same way. Sherlock said, “Yes, Detective Alba, we’d like to see Mr. Hurley right away. We understand you’re holding him as a material witness?”

  Detective Henry Norris thought Agent Sherlock was very cool, more than cool, and her name, it was perfect. He inched closer to her. “Yes, that’s it. Celinda, you want me to take the FBI agents to see Mr. Hurley?”

  Why don’t you lick her boots, you little schmuck? No way would Celinda let the feds tromp all over the little puppy. She said, “No, Henry, you need to continue with your witness statements. I’ll take them to see Hurley.”

  Sherlock and Coop felt the eyes of every detective and patrolman staring after them as Detective Alba walked them to an interview room down an institutional hallway with cracked linoleum and light green paint, an unfortunate color that had seen better days.

  Sherlock said easily, “You know already that Kirsten Bolger has murdered six women. We’re looking at another half dozen women we think she’s murdered in the San Francisco area, which is where she grew up.”

  “Yeah, I know all about that. Captain Slaughter told us everything. Everyone around here will know everything soon, the media included. They’ll be blaring this all over the place anytime now, probably on streamers across the bottom of TV sets. Then Bundy’s daughter will dig herself a hole and we’ll never find her.”

  “Nah,” Coop said easily. “Kirsten Bolger won’t ever run away and hide. It’s not in her genes.”

  He had a bedroom voice, too, Celinda thought, and planted herself in front of the closed interview-room door, hands on her hips. “What do you think you can find out from Hurley that we couldn’t? You read the interview transcript, didn’t you? It was thorough, complete. There’s not another drop of juice in him.”

  Sherlock didn’t smile. “You never know what’ll pop, do you, when he sees the FBI taking over the questioning?”

  Coop was thinking Detective Alba looked like she wanted to belt Sherlock. She was a large woman, all muscle, and he’d bet she could give Sherlock a good go. It was too bad they wouldn’t get any help from her. He wondered briefly why she disliked them, but he didn’t really care. When he wasn’t thinking about Kirsten Bolger, trying to figure out what she’d do next, he was thinking about Lucy, and worrying. He’d tried to call her a couple times, but she’d turned her cell off. He hated voice mail, hated it. He also believed she’d turned off her cell so she wouldn’t have to speak to him. It had to do with what she found in that safe-deposit box, he knew it.

  When Alba didn’t move, Sherlock said, a hint of steel in her voice, “Thank you for showing us the way, Detective Alba. We’ll take it from here.”

  And she simply took a step forward, forcing Alba to either step aside or the two of them would bump noses. Alba took a fast step to the left. Sherlock and Coop walked into the interview room and closed the door in Alba’s face before she could do more than suck in her breath.

  They looked at the young man sitting on the opposite side of a banged-up metal table. Thomas Hurley looked ill and wrung out, and scared.

  “Mr. Hurley?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “No, don’t get up. I’m Agent Sherlock, and this is Agent McKnight, FBI.”

  He perked up. “You’re really FBI agents? Honestly? I’ve never seen an FBI agent.” He rose to his feet, stuck out his hand. Sherlock, smiling at him, shook his hand, then Coop.

  Sherlock motioned for him to be seated again, and she and Coop handed over their creds. They watched him study their IDs, but Sherlock didn’t think he was really paying much attention, more like studying them to tell his friends what FBI shields looked like.

  They sat down across from him and waited until he was done. Then Sherlock said, “Thank you for staying, Mr. Hurley. We need your help.”

  “That Detective Alba, she told me not to move.” Thomas shrugged. “I’ll tell you, I think she could make the mayor freeze in his tracks.”

  Coop sat forward. “From the transcript we’ve read, it seems to us you did everything right.”

  “Except belt the woman who suppose
dly wanted to save Genny.” He sighed, fiddled with a pen. “If I’d done something, anything, Genny wouldn’t be dead.” Thomas Hurley gave Coop a weak smile. “You know what? It was Genny who hit me and knocked me down, not Monica. She was real strong, and she caught me off guard.”

  Sherlock said, “We know you’re tired, Mr. Hurley, and sick over what happened to Genny Connelly last night. We know you’ve already recounted what happened a number of times, but we’d like you to talk us through it one more time, since you were up close and personal with her murderer—Monica, she called herself? She had long blond hair, you said?”

  Thomas was staring at her. He felt punch-drunk, he was so tired. He heard himself say, “My sister has red hair, but it’s nothing like yours, Agent Sherlock. Sherlock? That’s really your name? Maybe I could fit it in a poem. That’s what I am, you know, a poet, when I’m not a waiter.”

  He stopped talking, stared at her hard. Sherlock said, “Thank you, Mr. Hurley. You’ve never met an FBI agent, and I’ve never met a poet. Now, the woman said her name was Monica?”

  Thomas leaned forward. “Yes. She accused me of putting a roofie in Genny’s drink. I couldn’t believe that. A roofie! It was a lie, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, we know. She was the one who managed to drug Ms. Connelly’s mojito without anyone noticing. Do you remember Monica coming close to where you were sitting? At the bar, right?”

  “I swear I never saw her before she came running out of Enrico’s, yelling for me to stop.”

  “How many times did you go to the men’s room, Mr. Hurley?”

  He thought for a moment. “Only once, I think, but Genny was there, so how could Monica—?”

  “Distraction, Mr. Hurley,” Coop said. “Think about it. It’s not hard to make people look away, focus on something else. You said Monica had very long blond hair. Think back now. Do you think it was a wig?”

  “A wig? Detective Norris mentioned that, but I wasn’t thinking about that at the time, so I can’t be sure one way or the other. It all happened really fast, and Genny was hitting me, and I went down, and Monica was calling me a creep and a lowlife, and Genny wouldn’t listen to me. Sweet Mary and Joseph, Genny’s dead.” He gulped back tears. After a moment, he said, “Do you know Genny was only at Enrico’s because her boyfriend was gambling in Atlantic City, had a gambling problem she’d just found out about that night? Anyway, she was depressed and mad, and she wanted to get drunk, to forget the guy.” He bowed his head, started clenching and unclenching his hands on the tabletop. “She was sweet, you know? I really liked her. If her idiot boyfriend had walked in the door, I swear I would have decked him.” He looked at both of them, helpless, eyes blank. “And now she’s dead, just dead. Gone, and nothing will ever matter to her again.

  “Murdered by Ted Bundy’s daughter, that’s what Detective Alba told me. I think she believes I knew Monica, that maybe I helped her kill Genny, but that isn’t true, it isn’t.”

  “We know, Mr. Hurley,” Coop said. “We know you didn’t have anything to do with Genny’s murder.”

  “Bundy’s daughter—it’s so hard to believe, to make yourself believe, you know? It’s like it really can’t be real; it’s like something someone made up, like one of my poems. You’re certain this Monica is really, truly Ted Bundy’s daughter? I mean, really, Ted Bundy?”

  CHAPTER 31

  Coop nodded. “I’m afraid that’s true, Mr. Hurley. I’d like to try jogging your memory a little differently. I’d like you to close your eyes and relax. Are you with me? Yes, that’s right, lean back in that uncomfortable chair, take a couple of deep breaths, and picture Monica in your mind. When you’ve got her clear, tell us what you see.”

  Thomas kept his eyes closed and let his chin drop down, and for a moment, Coop and Sherlock thought he’d fallen asleep. Then his eyes popped open, and both Sherlock and Coop saw anger. Anger was good, it would help him focus. “She’s thin, her chin’s pointed, not as pointed as Reese Witherspoon’s or Jennifer Aniston’s, but sort of pointed. That hair of hers, it’s really thick and blond, and it’s hanging halfway down her back, more straight than not. Her face is white, like she uses face powder to make it even whiter. Her eyes are really dark. She’s wearing lots of clothes, so I can’t see any other part of her, except her legs. Thin legs, and tall black boots, the kind that fit really snug against your calf. Her eyes are set far apart, and her mouth’s on the small side, sort of pinched. But still, she’s somehow pretty. I’d look at her twice if I passed her in the street.”

  “Her daddy was good-looking, so why not?” Coop said as he took a photo of Kirsten Bolger out of his briefcase. “Is this Monica?”

  “This is the same photo Detective Norris showed me. I told him at first I didn’t think so, because this woman’s hair is black.”

  Coop said, “But he told you to lose the hair, right?”

  “Yes, he did. And yes, when I did that, I recognized her. Yes, that’s Monica. I heard the other detectives talking about how she’s killed lots of women before poor Genny.”

  Sherlock nodded. “Mr. Hurley, think back now. You’re having fun, trying to cheer Genny up, singing, entertaining the crowd. You’re sitting at the bar. When you turn out on your stool, you can see everyone in Enrico’s, right?”

  “Yes, just about.”

  “Look around the bar; look closely at the people. Do you see Monica? No, don’t shake your head, keep looking. Scan the room slowly, the booths, the tables. Anybody dancing?”

  “No, no dancing.” Thomas fell quiet for a long time. He didn’t move, not even his hands. Finally he looked her straight in the eye and said, “Yes, I remember now, I did see her. She was sitting in a booth against the far wall.”

  “Was she alone?”

  He reared back in his chair a bit, looked surprised. “Well, wait, I don’t know—no, she wasn’t alone. There was a guy with her, kind of in the shadows, but I remember seeing him; he even sang along with me on a song. I don’t think Monica ever sang.”

  “Describe what you see, Mr. Hurley.”

  “She’s sitting at a table, a glass in front of her, but you know, it looks like plain old water to me. She’s not even eating the peanuts Big Ed puts in these little bowls on all the tables. She’s sitting there, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her folded hands, and she’s looking at me, watching me.”

  Sherlock lightly laid her hands over his. “Was she watching you or Genny?”

  For a moment, Thomas simply couldn’t deal with it. “Oh, sweet Mary and Joseph, she could be watching Genny.”

  She kept her voice smooth, infinitely calm. “You said her elbows are on the table, her chin’s resting on her hands.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to close your eyes again. Yes, that’s right. Good. Look at her hands, Thomas. Do you see any rings? Bracelets? A watch?”

  Thomas’s eyes were still closed when he said, “I can’t make anything out—wait, she’s waving at the waitress. She’s probably going to order another beer for the guy.”

  “Which arm?”

  “Her right arm.”

  Sherlock lightly rubbed her fingers over the backs of his hands. “Thomas, focus on her right hand. Do you see any jewelry?”

  He shook his head, then, “Yes, there’s a ring on her finger, a big silver ring; it looks kind of weird, because it’s too big for her hand.”

  “Focus on the ring. Describe it to us.”

  After a couple of moments, Thomas opened his eyes. “You know, I saw a flash, so yes, there was some sort of stone on top of the ring. An emerald, I think, but that’s only a feeling, I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”

  “Did you see this ring again when she was shouting at you outside the bar? That’s right, close your eyes, picture her.”

  “She’s waving both arms around. She’s wearing rings on both hands. Do you know, I think the rings are the same.” He opened his eyes. “Why would she wear the same ring on both hands? I’ve got to be wr
ong.”

  Sherlock leaned over and patted his hand. “Maybe not, Thomas, maybe not. Do you think you could describe the guy sitting at her table to a police artist?”

  “I can try, Agent Sherlock.”

  Detective Alba came in while Thomas Hurley was working with the police sketch artist, Daniel Gibbs. She stepped forward quietly to take a look over his shoulder.

  Detective Alba said, “What’s this? We already have a photo of Bundy’s daughter. Why waste time with another sketch?”

  Sherlock never looked away from the man’s face that was slowly taking shape under Daniel’s talented fingers. “This isn’t Kirsten Bolger. This is a sketch of the guy who was sitting across from Monica in her booth at Enrico’s.”

  Celinda felt a punch of surprise, followed quickly by an icy wave of rage. “What?” She looked ready to beat Thomas into the floor. “Hurley, you never bothered to tell us about any guy sitting with her? You made this up, didn’t you, to impress her?”

  Thomas shrank back. “No, I didn’t make it up!”

  Sherlock said easily, “Detective Alba, would you please step outside with me?”

  Celinda didn’t want to; she wanted to take a strip off the little twerp.

  “Detective, now, if you please.”

  Once outside, Sherlock quietly closed the door behind her. “Did you ever ask him, Detective?”

  “No, but he should have—”

  “I’ve found—surely you have as well—that witnesses like Mr. Hurley who’ve been very close to violence are frankly traumatized, so much stuff swimming in their brains, it helps to guide them very slowly, very thoroughly. And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s exhausted.”

  “Well, yeah, of course, he’s a little tired, but that’s not the point.”

  Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know, Detective, I really don’t know what the point is, except finding out as much as we can from this witness and catching this monster.”