Music rose to lofty decibels and they disconnected.
Rhyme said, “Did somebody write all that down, know what to do? We’ve got to—”
Archer looked up from her computer screen and said, “Bad news, good news.”
“What?”
“I followed his instructions. The bad news is you’ve already started to get Russian porn spam. But the good news: I’ve got the blogger’s address. And, the better news: He’s here in town.”
CHAPTER 18
Too many people in this city,” Ron Pulaski said. Then seemed to regret the comment since the perp they were now seeking was in his own demented way addressing the population situation.
The young officer’s complaint really was that there were too many people crossing streets against lights and that those lights were not in his and Amelia Sachs’s favor.
She, however, wasn’t that concerned about either limitation. True, transit was slow but they were making steady progress from One PP to the intersection where the gypsy cab had dropped Unsub 40 the night he’d murdered Todd Williams with his inelegant but effective tool. Sachs was engaging in what she called the touchless nudge—easing the car close to those blocking the way with an air of sufficient distraction to make the pedestrian feel deliciously imperiled and, accordingly, scoot out of the way.
Finally they escaped from the downtown area known in the 1800s as Five Points, the most dangerous few square miles in the United States (now far more pristine, though, some said cynically, populated by as many criminals as back in the day; the neighborhood embraced City Hall).
In ten minutes, they spotted the gypsy cab on the Lower East Side, parts of which were growing into hipster and artist enclaves. Not here. Dilapidated commercial buildings ruled, and a number of vacant lots.
In the phone conversation, arranging this meeting, the driver had said, “You’ll see me, white Ford. Dripping wet. Just clean her.” The accent had been a mystery.
Sachs nosed the Torino into a space, avoiding mounds of trash banked at the curb, and they climbed out. The short, swarthy driver, in jeans and a blue Real Madrid soccer shirt, exited his cab and joined them.
“I’m Detective Sachs. This is Officer Pulaski.”
“Hi, hi.” He shook their hands enthusiastically. Some people are nervous meeting the police, some are critical of authority, and some—a few—act like they’re in the presence of rock stars.
Eduardo was going to give White Castle’s Charlotte a run for the money.
“So, I happy to help. Happy.”
“Good. Appreciate it. Tell me about this man.”
“He very tall and very skinny. Weird, don’t you know?”
“Any—”
“Distinguishing characteristics?” he blurted.
“Yes.”
“No, no, couldn’t see much. Hat on. Braves. The team, don’t you know?”
“Yes, we know.” Pulaski was looking around, taking in the empty street. Warehouses, small offices. Nothing residential or retail. He turned back to his notebook, in which he was transcribing whatever the man had to say.
“Sunglasses, he wore too.”
“Hair color?”
“Lighter, I think. But, the hat. You know.”
“And his clothes?”
“Green jacket, yellow-green. Dark pants. And a backpack. Oh, and a bag.”
“Bag?”
“Plastic. Like he bought something and they put it in bag. He look in bag a couple times, I driving him.”
Charlotte had said the same.
“Any logo on the bag?”
“Logo?”
“Store name, picture? Smiley face.”
“Emoji! No.”
“How big was the bag?” Sachs asked.
“Not big. Strawberries.”
“He had strawberries?” Pulaski wondered.
“No, no. I mean about size of package of strawberries. Just thinking that. Or blueberries, or salad dressing or a large can of tomatoes. That big,” Eduardo said, beaming. “Exactly.”
“Any idea what was in it?”
“No. Hear something metal. Click, a click.”
“Did he make any phone calls?”
“No. But he kind of talk to himself. I told you that on phone. I could not hear good. First, I say, ‘What that, sir?’ Thinking he talking to me. But he said, ‘Nothing.’ I meaning, he said something. ‘Nothing’ was what he said. Don’t you know? And then he quiet after that. Just look out window. Wouldn’t look at me. So couldn’t really see scars. You always like scars. Police. Distinguishing things. But didn’t see any.”
Pulaski asked, “Did he have an accent?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“American,” Eduardo answered. He wasn’t being ironic.
“So, you stopped here. This intersection?”
“Yes, yes. I thought you want to see where exactly.”
“We do. He paid with cash?”
“Yes, yes, that’s all we take, don’t you know?”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you still have the money he paid you with?”
“For fingerprints!”
“That’s right.”
“No.” The driver shook his head broadly.
“Where did he go? I understand you waited here and saw him go into one of those buildings.” Pulaski was looking up from the notebook.
“I did, yes. I will tell you.” He pointed up the street. “You can just see it, that one. Beige.” He wrung two syllables out of the color.”
From here they could make out only a sliver of a five-story building; the front was on an adjoining street. It was surrounded by a vacant lot on one side and a half-demolished building on the other.
Eduardo continued, “I remember because I am thinking maybe whoever he was going to see was not home, or not there, and this neighborhood? No cruising medallions so he want to go back to Queens and I could make a second fare. But I saw him go through back door. That’s when I left, don’t you know?”
“We appreciate your help.”
“He a killer?” Eduardo grinned happily.
“He’s wanted in connection with a homicide, yes. If you see him again, if he comes by your office in Queens, call nine one one and give them my name.” She dealt out another of her cards. “Don’t do anything yourself, try to stop him.”
“No, I call you, Officer Detective.”
After he’d left, she and Pulaski started toward the building he’d pointed out. They got no more than a half block when she stopped fast.
“What is it, Amelia?” Pulaski whispered.
She was squinting. “What street is that? That the building faces?”
“I don’t know.” He pulled out his Samsung and loaded a map. “Ridge.” The young officer frowned. “Why’s that familiar? . . . Hell.”
Sachs nodded. “Yep. It’s where Todd Williams worked.” She’d learned where the victim’s office was and retraced his steps from the murder site back to here, canvassing for clues. She’d also tried to interview others in the ramshackle building but of the few people who had offices in the structure—only three or four, the rest of the space being empty—no one had seen anything helpful to the investigation.
“They knew each other. The unsub and Williams. Well, this changes everything.”
It wasn’t a robbery or random killing at all.
Sachs mused, “The unsub got here four hours before the murder. Did they stay in the building? If so, doing what? Or did they go somewhere else?”
And other questions: Did Unsub 40 come to this area often? Did he live near here?
She looked around the street. The occupied buildings included a few tenements and what seemed to be warehouses and wholesalers. The canvass probably wouldn’t take too long. She’d assemble a team from the local precinct.
Sachs spotted a homeless man, lean and pale, foraging through a trash bin.
Approaching, Sachs said, “Hi. Can I ask you a question?”
“Just did.” His dark face wrinkled.
“I’m sorry?”
He returned to digging through the bin. “Just did ask me a question.”
She laughed. “You live near here?”
“Simon Says.” He found a half sandwich and put it into his shopping bag. “Okay. I’m being fun. Shelter up the street. Or under the bridge. Depending.” The hands and neck and calves, which were uncovered by the greasy clothing, were quite muscular.
“Did you seen anybody tall and real thin go into that building a few weeks ago? Or any other time?”
“No.” He moved on to another bin.
Sachs and Pulaski trailed. “You sure?” Pulaski asked. “Want another look?”
“No. Simon Says.”
Sachs waited.
The man said, “You asked if I saw him going into the building. Nup. Didn’t. You didn’t ask if I’d seen him period. Which I have. Simon Says.”
“Okay, where have you seen him?”
“Now you’re cooking with gas. Standing right Jiminy there.” He pointed: the far intersection, the direction they were going. “Skinny guy, but eating like a . . . do sailors eat? No, they swear. Chimneys smoke. He was eating something, munchin’ it down. Was gonna hit him up for something. But felt off. Kind of talking to himself. Also, eating that way, thought he seemed greedy. Chomp, chomp, chomp. I wouldn’t get anything.”
“When was this?”
“A while ago.”
“How long? A week, a few days?”
“Simon Says.”
Sachs tried, “What do you mean by a while ago?”
“Ten, fifteen.”
“Days?”
“Minutes. He was just there.”
Jesus.
Sachs unbuttoned her jacket and glanced up the street. Pulaski too grew vigilant, looking in the directions she was not.
“He go in any particular way?” she asked.
And don’t fucking Simon Says me.
“No, just standing there. I went on looking for stuff, and that was it. Didn’t see him again. Could be here, could be there, could be anywhere.”
Pulaski was pressing the transmit button on the Motorola mike pinned to his shoulder. He called in a request for backup and, before she could remind him to do so, he said, “Silent roll-up. Suspect may be unaware of our presence. K.”
“K,” came the staticky response.
Sachs got the homeless man’s name, which wasn’t Simon, and the shelter he sometimes stayed in. She thanked him and told him it was best to leave. She was tempted to hand him a twenty but if it came down to testifying in court about the presence of the unsub, a defense lawyer would ask if he’d been paid anything by the police.
“You better get back to the shelter. Safer.”
“Yes, ma’am. Yes, sir, Officer, sir.”
He started away.
Ron Pulaski said, “Oh, hey, look.”
The man slowly pivoted. Pulaski was pointing at something in the street a few feet away from them. It was a twenty-dollar bill.
“You drop that?” Pulaski asked.
“Me. Ha.”
“If we take it, we have to report it. Pain in the ass.”
“Bullshit.”
Sachs, playing along. “True. Rules.”
Pulaski said, “You go ahead and take it. Finders keepers.”
“Think I will. Simon Says. There’s a reason you get half sandwiches in the trash. Nobody throws out a good sandwich.” He scooped up the money with his long, sinewy fingers and pocketed it.
Sachs nodded to Pulaski, acknowledging the good deed. It had never occurred to her to handle it that way.
The man wandered off, muttering to himself.
“How long, you think?” she asked
“Before backup? Eight, nine minutes.”
“He can’t’ve gotten very far. Let’s check the ground for footprints. See if we can find which way he went, size thirteens.”
And began to walk a lazy grid in search of tread marks. The search was, of course, slowed by the fact that each officer looked up from time to time, searching for a threat.
Just because Unsub 40 had not shot anyone yet didn’t mean he wasn’t willing and able to try.
CHAPTER 19
Thom had dropped Evers Whitmore and Lincoln Rhyme off in front of the building that housed the blogger’s office, whose address Juliette Archer had tracked down, and drove off to park the accessible van in a lot a few blocks away.
The lawyer once again pressed the button on the intercom. Social Engineering Second-ly. It was on the top floor.
Still no answer.
“We can keep looking,” Whitmore said. “There have to be other people who’ve researched the DataWise.”
But Rhyme wanted the man who’d written the piece that Archer had found. He wanted to know exactly what kind of ambient radio waves had caused it to activate.
Expert witness . . .
A perfect one.
Whitmore gazed around the deserted streets. “We can leave a note, I suppose.”
“No,” Rhyme said. “He’ll never contact us. We know where he works now. Let’s come back tomorrow. We can—”
“What was that?” Whitmore said quickly.
Rhyme too had heard the scrape of sole on the cobblestones. Around the corner, it seemed.
Whitmore, Rhyme had learned, was not given to displays of emotion but Rhyme could tell from the lawyer’s uncharacteristically darting eyes that he was concerned.
Rhyme was too.
The footsteps seemed furtive. The neighborhood deserted.
The lawyer said, “I’ve never done criminal work, but I’ve been shot at twice pursuant to civil suits. The perpetrators missed both times and might have been trying only to scare me. But it was still an unpleasant experience.”
Rhyme had been shot at, as well, and could concur.
Another scrape.
From where? Rhyme had no idea.
Whitmore added, “I also received in the mail a rat without its head. The head arrived a week later with a note suggesting I withdraw a lawsuit.” It was nerves talking at this point.
“But you didn’t.” Rhyme was scanning the street, and the buildings. This was not a particularly dangerous neighborhood, statistically, but if a mugger wanted to nail someone easy, this pair would be a good choice. A slim nerdy lawyer and a gimp.
Whitmore said, “No, the case stood. In fact, I ran some forensics on the rat, found human DNA, and my private eye got samples of personal effects of everyone connected to the case. The rodent was a gift from the brother of the defendant.” Whitmore was looking around again. One black window seemed particularly to bother him, though Rhyme could have told him that snipers weren’t a major risk.
“You would have thought that the brother would be a rather obvious suspect. But he seemed to believe he could get away with it. I sued him for intentional infliction of emotional distress. I wasn’t actually that distressed but I made a credible witness. The jury was rather sympathetic. I testified I had nightmares about rats. This was true but the opposing counsel failed to ask when. The last time was when I was eight. Mr. Rhyme, did you hear that noise again?”
He nodded.
“Do you have a gun?” the lawyer asked.
Rhyme’s expression, as he turned toward Whitmore: Do I look like I’m a fast-draw kind of person?
Then more footsteps, growing closer.
Cocking his head to the right, Rhyme whispered, “He’s coming from that direction.”
They remained still for a moment. There was a sound from where he’d just indicated: A click of metal.
Chambering a bullet before the mugging?
Or just planning to shoot and pilfer after?
Time to leave. Now. Rhyme gestured with his head and Whitmore nodded. Rhyme could move fast, if roughly, over the cobblestones toward one of the busy north–south avenues.
He whispered Thom’s number to Whitmore. “Text him. Have him meet us a block north, Broadway.”
The lawyer did this and slipped his phone back into his pocket. With effort he dragged Rhyme’s heavy chair over the curb.
