Cut And Run. Carla Neggers
“Neither am I.”
“Of course not. Rachel Stein wants my head, and you’ll give it to her because otherwise she’ll talk—and someone may look deeper into the possible connections between us. I shouldn’t think that’s something you or Sergeant Bloch would want.”
“Very perceptive of you, de Geer,” Ryder said bitterly. “She can do me incredible damage, and with no justification, I might add.”
Hendrik smiled, truly amused. “Ahh, yes, you’re the innocent in all this.”
Ryder made no argument, didn’t even hear the light sarcasm in de Geer’s voice. God, how he hated this! He had planned for this moment for days, since Rachel Stein had first given him the details of de Geer’s betrayal of her family and the Peperkamps, and now that it was here, he could barely concentrate. He was still seeing Juliana Fall’s eyes, dark and beautiful against the pale hair. She must have thought him a fool. “You’re such a silly ass, Sam,” his wife had said when she’d left him. Other women didn’t agree—he didn’t agree—but the sting of her words had stayed with him. His wife had been one woman he could never impress. That’s the kind you always go for, isn’t it, pal? But no, Juliana Fall wouldn’t be like that. If only Stark—damn him! What was he doing there tonight?
“But you have terms,” the Dutchman said calmly.
With almost physical force, the senator shoved from his mind the image of smug, arrogant Matthew Stark. Steelman, the men had called him, always with respect. They could count on Stark. He was reliable. Straight up. Nerveless. Ryder had wanted a nickname like Steelman, not Golden Boy. But that was all in the past. Who was the U.S. senator, and who was the has-been writer? Their meeting backstage was an unfortunate coincidence, that was all. That was all he would permit it to be.
“Yes,” he said, finally, “I have terms. You can solve my problems at the same time you solve your own.”
Ryder turned, observing the Dutchman’s ill-fitting suit, his unstyled hair and blunt, callused hands. How had such a man come to have so much power over him? But no longer, Ryder thought. At last, no more. “I know about Amsterdam. Rachel Stein told me everything when she came to me after she saw us in the car together on the six o’clock news. That was a bad piece of luck, but I warned you about meeting me in person. But perhaps things will work out for the best, hm? After Rachel and I talked, I did some investigating on my own and found out even more. You’re here tonight, de Geer, because you know you caused the deaths of twelve people and Rachel Stein would like nothing better than to see you brought to justice for what you did. You’re here because you know I know. You could disappear. I’m no fool, I know you could. But you have a good thing going with Bloch, and you’re getting old. It wouldn’t be easy to start over again, especially when there’s no need. You have only to get me what I want, and I’ll forget everything I know about you.”
Hendrik had learned not to dismiss so easily this man with the innocent eyes. “We’ve discussed this before. I’m here, am I not? Tell me what it is you want.”
“The diamond.”
The Dutchman made no sound.
“You know what I’m talking about. I know you do. The Stein woman doesn’t believe it exists or she’d never have mentioned it when she came to me to complain about you. She has no idea of my interest in the stone—but I’m convinced it does exist. What’s more, you’re going to get it for me.”
“I know of many diamonds, Senator—”
“Don’t, de Geer. Don’t waste my time.”
Hendrik regarded the young senator without emotion. “I have to be sure. This diamond’s name?”
Ryder’s eyes went cold. “The Minstrel’s Rough.”
Otis Raymond shifted back and forth on his feet as he stood on the hand-braided rug next to the big oak rolltop desk. Behind him, a fire roared in the stone fireplace, but, as always, Raymond seemed cold. A fine specimen of the U.S. Army, Bloch thought. Shit. It never ceased to amaze him that SP-4 Raymond had survived Vietnam, and as a door gunner no less. Had to be dumb luck.
“Good evening, Raymond.”
“Sergeant.”
Bloch leaned back in the swivel chair. “I just got a call from Sam. He said Stark showed up at Lincoln Center tonight. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Matt Stark? No, Sergeant. I ain’t seen him in a couple years.”
“You didn’t stop in to see him while you were in Washington?”
“No, uh uh. I was there on your time. I just did what I was supposed to do.”
“Of course. Then why was Stark in New York?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“I might, Raymond. I just might.”
Otis sniffled, unable to stand still. “Anything else?”
“No, you’re dismissed.”
A short while later, Bloch received another call. “It’s done,” his man in New York said.
“An accident?” Bloch asked.
“Of course.”
“Satisfactory.” He watched the bright flames, enjoying the smell of the burning birchwood. “Very satisfactory.”
Seven
Matthew arrived in the newsroom early Monday morning, too damn early, and drank two cups of coffee even before Feldie showed up. He wasn’t doing any work. He just sat at his desk, staring at the Plexiglas partition above it where he’d hung the poster of the movie that had been based on his book, LZ. They’d kept the title. The movie had won lots of awards—so had the book—and now was available on tape for VCR; the book was required reading in college courses on the Vietnam War. He used to have some of the reviews stuck up on the partition next to the poster, but he’d pulled them down about a year ago. No reason. Just tired of looking at them, he supposed. A few months ago, Time had done a piece on whatever happened to Matthew Stark, the helicopter pilot who’d been awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross and survived two tours in the central highlands, only to return to Vietnam one more time as a freelance journalist, publishing articles with The New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s. When he finally came home he wrote his book and joined the Washington Post. He was the tarnished hero, the Vietnam vet people could dare to like.
Then he got sick of it all or ran out of things to say—something. He’d quit caring about what had brought on the change of heart. He’d resigned from the Post, done nothing for a while, then, still with a reputation left, showed up at the Gazette to do a tabloid’s version of investigative reporting.
He sipped some coffee and admitted he felt better. Nothing like a newsroom to help him forget a long Sunday of nightmares that had haunted him, awake and asleep. He called them nightmares, although they weren’t. They were memories.
“Asshole!”
Alice Feldon stomped over to his desk, the front page of the New York Times crushed in one hand, her glasses down on the end of her big nose. “Goddamn you,” she said. “I stick my neck out for you, I call in a few chips to get you a ticket to a sold-out concert at Lincoln Center, I trust you, you son of a bitch, and how the hell do you repay me?”
“Relax, Feldie. It was a dead end, all right? No story.”
“Bullshit.” She flung the Times at him. “There, read. A woman slipped and fell outside Lincoln Center after the concert Saturday night. Died. Her body wasn’t discovered until yesterday afternoon.”
“Great story, Feldie. I’ll get right on it.”
“I don’t need your sarcasm. The woman’s name was Rachel Stein. Mean anything to you?”