Split Second

by Catherine Coulter

  “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 wrong.”

  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.”

  “Well, yes, of course—”

  Sherlock paid her no more attention. She opened the interview-room door, stepped inside, and closed the door again. She wished there was a lock. She looked down at Mr. Gibbs’s sketch. Nearly there.

  A few more minutes passed, then Daniel Gibbs said, “Is this the guy, Mr. Hurley?”

  Thomas Hurley studied the sketch, blinked, and said, “That’s amazing what you did.” He looked at Sherlock. “I really didn’t think I’d paid that much attention to him, but—that’s the guy. You believe me, don’t you?”

  Sherlock couldn’t believe it, yet it made a weird sort of sense. The man staring up at her was George Lansford’s aide. Dillon was thorough, never forgot to close the circle on anything, no matter how seemingly minor, and so he’d pulled up photos and names of all the participants in that meeting with George Lansford and passed them around the unit. This sketch was the aide who’d ushered Dillon, Lucy, and Coop into the suite, never saying a word, Dillon had told her. She’d swear this was the same guy, right down to the aviator glasses on his nose. What was his name? Something unusual, like that old movie Coma, but what? Then she had it—his name was Bruce Comafield. She couldn’t wait to show the sketch to Coop. Talk about a surprise.

  She smiled at Thomas Hurley, gave his hand a big shake. “I cannot emphasize what a great help you’ve been, Mr. Hurley. When we catch Monica, it will be in large part because of how good your visual memory is.”

  Celinda Alba walked in again, this time preceding her entrance with a little warning knock. She looked down at the sketch. “Who’s this clown with the glasses?”

  “Mr. Gibbs is very talented, Detective. They’re aviator glasses; he must wear them all the time.”

  “How would you know that? Wait, you’re saying you know this guy? There’s no way, no way at all.”

  Sherlock gave her a really big smile. “As a matter of fact, Detective, I do know him; haven’t met him, but I’ve seen his photo.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gibbs, and thank you, Mr. Hurley; you’ve done a great job.” She shook both their hands, gently laid the sketch flat in her briefcase, and walked past Detective Alba without a word.

  “But wait, who is he? We’ve got a right to know, we’ve—”

  “Later,” Sherlock called over her shoulder.

  CHAPTER 32

  Sherlock took a taxi to meet Coop at Enrico’s to talk to Big Ed. The driver gave her a look, shrugged. “Whatever you say, lady.” Not three minutes later, he pulled up in front of Enrico’s. She laughed, gave the driver a big tip.

  When she stepped inside the dimly lit bar, she heard a man’s voice. “You heard me, Agent McKnight, my real name is Eduardo Ribbins, and what kind of name is that? I hate giving it out, especially at the bar. I sure hate it that that sweet girl—Genny’s her name? Yeah, Genny, tragic thing, horrible thing—nothing like that’s ever happened here. You got that woman yet who killed her?”

  He looked up to see Sherlock, didn’t for a minute think she was a customer, and motioned her over. Sherlock introduced herself, sat down at the bar, motioned for him to continue. Big Ed said, “I’ve thought and thought about it, Agent McKnight, but I never got a good look at her. I remember once when I went on break for ten minutes, I happened to look back and saw her coming up to the bar. You’ve got to ask Bonnie;
she took over for me.” Big Ed turned and shouted, “Bonnie, get out here!”

  Bonnie came out of the back, wiping her hands on an apron. When they asked about Monica, she said, “Yeah, I remember her. Thin as a stick, that one, and she was snooty to me. She had this long blond hair.”

  Coop said, “Do you think it was a wig?”

  “Hmmm, you know, maybe so, yeah, I think you’re right.”

  Coop pulled out the photo and showed it to both Big Ed and Bonnie. “Make her hair blond. Is this her?”

  It took some lip chewing and lots of frowns, but Bonnie finally said, “Yeah, that’s her. I’m sure.” Big Ed nodded, eyes slitting as he stared down at Kirsten Bolger.

  Coop said to Bonnie, “When she came to the bar, what did she do?”

  “She gave me this look, like, you know, I’m some sort of rodent in her path, didn’t order a single thing. She just stood there. Thomas was in the men’s room, I think, but somebody else started singing at the top of his lungs, and everyone was singing along and clapping, and it was real loud and Genny was weaving around on her bar stool, and then I got real busy. When I looked back up, she’d gone back to her table, table seven by the wall.” Bonnie frowned. “I wonder why she came up if she didn’t want to order anything?”

  Coop said, “Did you notice the guy she was with?”

  Bonnie shook her head. “That’s Ms. Darlene’s section. Ms. Darlene! Come on out here.”

  And blessed be, Ms. Darlene, who was Big Ed’s mother and pushing seventy, said, “I remember him. He was a young guy, good-looking, conservative dresser, like most of the yuppie Wall Street types we get in here. Looked real sexy in those aviator glasses of his. Oh, yes, he had some tan; he was really dark.”

  Sherlock pulled the sketch of Bruce Comafield out of her briefcase. “Ms. Darlene, is this the guy?”

  Coop sucked in his breath but kept quiet as Ms. Darlene looked down and did a double take. “Yeah, that’s him. What is he, a stockbroker?”

  “Actually, he’s an assistant to a very important man. Ms. Darlene, do you remember the blonde leaving Enrico’s?”

  “No, sorry. When I checked on the table a couple minutes later, she and the guy were both gone.”

  Bonnie said, “I saw her go out the front door to catch Genny, but the guy? I guess he could have gone out the emergency door, but there’s a god-awful racket if anyone uses it.”

  Big Ed nodded to Ms. Darlene. “Mom’s right, the guy couldn’t have gone out the emergency door out back; everyone would have had their hands over their ears.” Big Ed walked across the bar to a door with a red light over the lintel, next to the signs for the men’s and women’s rooms. He was shaking his head when he walked back to them. “The main alarm wire’s been cut clean through. It had to be your guy who did that. Right, Mom? Otherwise, you’d have seen him.”

  Ms. Darlene’s eyes shone with excitement. “Sure, he cut the wire, then it’s a clean shot out the door into the alley. Do you think he hooked up with Monica and Genny? Maybe helped her kill Genny Connelly?” She turned on her son. “Eduardo, you always turn off the alarm when you come in. Didn’t you realize it was off this morning? What happened?”

  Big Ed suddenly looked like he was twelve years old. “Ah, Ma, I just flipped the switch, didn’t really look at it.”

  Ms. Darlene smacked him on the arm.

  CHAPTER 33

  As soon as they stepped outside Enrico’s to walk back to the First Precinct, Sherlock gave Coop a huge smile and pulled out the sketch. “You remember him, don’t you, Coop? His name is Bruce Comafield.”

  He studied it again, and said, “When you showed it to Ms. Darlene, I tell you, Sherlock, I couldn’t believe it. You got this out of Thomas?”

  She nodded.

  “When you think about it, it’s not so surprising Mr. Lansford’s aide would know his stepdaughter. So he and Kirsten—do you think they’re both involved in this killing spree?”

  “No clue, but we’re going to find out.”

  “So, he went out the back? Where did he go? Did he meet up with Kirsten, before or after she’d killed Genny Connelly?”

  “Good questions. I could give Thomas Hurley a big kiss, but he might put me in one of his poems.”

  When they faced Captain Slaughter, at his request, ten minutes later, he said immediately, “Detective Alba here tells me you got Daniel Gibbs to do a sketch, supposedly of a guy sitting with Kirsten Bolger.”

  Detective Alba said, “We could have gotten that sketch, too, if Hurley had told us about the guy.”

  Captain Slaughter waved her away and looked down at the sketch Sherlock laid on his desktop.

  Detective Alba jerked her head toward Sherlock. “She says she recognizes him, sir.”

  Captain Slaughter raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow.

  Sherlock handed him the sketch. “If you would make a copy of the sketch and fax it to the homicide divisions in San Francisco, Chicago, Cleveland, and Philadelphia, I’d appreciate it. Then we’ll check it out. If it’s really the guy we think it is, you’ll know it right away.” Captain Slaughter handed off the sketch.

  Detective Henry Norris said, “At least we know for sure it isn’t a sketch of Kirsten Bolger’s daddy; we can all give thanks for that.”

  “Amen to that,” Sherlock said, and smiled at Norris. “Thank you for your assistance. Please send all your ideas and further interviews to us. We certainly appreciate it.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Captain Slaughter said. “You’re smiling, Agent Sherlock. You’ve got something up your sleeve?” He handed the sketch back to her and she gently laid it flat in her briefcase.

  She patted his arm. “Yes, sir, I believe I do.”

  “You should tell us who you think this guy is,” Detective Alba called after them. “I told you, we’ve got a right to know.”

  “Once we’re certain,” Sherlock said again, and finger-waved her good-bye, never looking back. She felt rather small about it, but Detective Alba was a pain. She’d been tempted for a moment to tell her they’d have gotten the same information at Enrico’s Bar—if they’d thought to ask. She’d give Captain Slaughter a heads-up when she got back to Washington.

  CHAPTER 34

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  Tuesday afternoon

  Lucy drove back toward Chevy Chase so excited she could practically fly. She hit traffic, and each time she stopped, she stared at the envelope on the passenger seat beside her, saw the bulging lump of the ring.

  When she reached her grandmother’s house, she carried the envelope into the library, as carefully as she would fine bone china. She set it atop the desk and stood there, looking at it. Slowly, she opened the envelope and turned it downward into her palm. A large, heavy gold ring fell out, pure gold, yes, and it was ugly and clumsylooking. She looked closely, saw the top of it came to nearly a point in the very center. Three rubies formed a triangle around the crest. No, they weren’t rubies, they were carnelians, flat, no luster at all. She rubbed them on her pants leg, but they still looked dull, no sparkle or shine. So this was the ring her grandfather had taken from her grandmother? This ring was why she’d stabbed him to death?

  She took her grandfather’s letter from the envelope and read it again.

  My dearest Lucy,

  I know, my darling, that you are grieving mightily as you read this, at your father’s death. I am sure you know he loved you as much as is possible for a person to love, as do I, my dearest.

  Forgive the shock of reading these words from my hand, no doubt a very long time since I held you last. I write after long thought and with your welfare in mind. You are probably reading this letter in your middle years, and wondering why I didn’t tell you all of this when you were younger. It was for your own protection, and because of my respect for your father, and my only son. While he lived, I know he would not have approved of my writing to you, nor giving you this ring. This is why I instructed the ring and letter not to be given to you until after his death.

&n
bsp; You are no doubt looking at or holding an old ring in your hand. It is an odd-looking ring, is it not? It is indeed very old and heavy—ugly, really—with its mysterious inscriptions and its few dull stones. But it is much more than that—it is your birthright.

  I first saw it when you were about two years old, the night your mother, Claudine, was taken from us in that terrible auto accident. Your grandmother and I saw the accident because we were driving directly behind her, on our way to a Whistler showing at the Ralston Gallery. Your grandmother was devastated, and she was drunk, a nearly empty bottle of vodka sticking out from beneath her pillow. I had never seen her drink like that before.

  She said over and over that she didn’t deserve to be alive if our daughter-in-law, Claudine, was dead. She was suffering so much, I feared she would try to harm herself, but instead she started talking about the ring, how if she’d only been wearing it she could have stopped the accident and Claudine would still be alive. “A ring?” I asked her. “What difference could a ring have possibly made?” I asked her again when she didn’t answer. She looked at me, her face blotched from her weeping, her eyes dead with despair, and then she took this strange old ring with the dull red stones wrapped in a sock out of the bottom drawer in her bedside table. I thought it was the ugliest ring I’d ever seen, and I asked her what it was. She said her own mother had given it to her before she died, and made her swear not to tell anyone about it except her own daughter, and that meant you, in this case—her granddaughter—when her time came to pass the ring along. Helen was crying, choking on her own words. She said the ring was magic. She said she’d always been afraid of it and had kept it hidden, and so Claudine’s death was her fault, since if she’d been wearing it she could have saved Claudine. I thought she was having a breakdown, could no longer bear to be in touch with reality, but then, you see, she showed me what the ring can do.