Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost. J. Kerley A.
forward, finger-tapped the table, set his hat on it. His hand found a chair and angled it toward him, sitting straight as a rail. I watched his nostrils study the air.
“Now, Mr Parks, you said you had something to –”
“We alone?” Parks interrupted.
“That’s what you wanted,” I finessed.
He flicked his head at Waltz. “Then who that fat guy sitting down there?”
I leaned forward, looked into Parks’s obsidian-black lenses. I resisted the cliché of waving my hand before his eyes, but only barely.
“Can you see, Mr Parks?”
He nodded toward Waltz. “I heard his belly grumblin’.”
Waltz looked at his gut, then at me; neither of us had heard a thing. Waltz sighed. “My name is Sheldon Waltz, Mr Parks. I’m a detective. Sitting in was my idea, and I apologize. But in law enforcement another pair of ears is often helpful.”
“One pair works fine for me,” Parks said. “They heard your sneakin’ ass.”
“For which I again apologize. Could you please explain how you knew I am, uh, a bit heavier than preferable.”
“I smelled the air you walked through gettin’ here. Stinks of that fat people’s drink, Slim-Down or whatever. My sister drink a case of that stuff every week and the flo’ boards still squeal when she walk crost ‘em.”
Waltz grimaced. “You have very good senses, Mr Parks.”
“I hear birds light on branches, smell bacon cookin’ a mile away. I remember the ’zact taste of ever’ woman I been with.”
Waltz raised his eyebrows, started to ask a question, thought better of it. I leaned toward Parks. “You mentioned to the desk man that you had something to tell me?”
Parks canted his head toward the door. “That coffee out there smells real fresh. Like it’d be good with two sugars but just a touch of cream.”
“I’ll be right back,” Waltz said, returning seconds later with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Parks sniffed from a foot away.
“Don’t drink no fake sugar.”
Waltz rolled his eyes, headed down the hall again. A minute later he set the coffee on the table. Parks sniffed the coffee and nodded approval.
“Well?” I asked.
“I was sittin’ in Washington Square an hour back when footsteps come at my bench. A fellow axed me how my sense of humor was. I said funny’s different to different folks. He said he was prankin’ a friend and he’d give me fifty dollars to help. I poked my cane his way and said to git on wit’ his sly bidness somewhere else.”
“What happened next?”
“He sat down next to me. I grabbed tight to my money pocket. But he said, ‘Do you hear inside the shadows, sir?’ I said, ‘What you talking about?’ He said, ‘Can you hear the music in the corner restaurant?’ The joint was a block down and the jazz-band music was under the sounds of cars, trucks, people yellin’ on the street, but sure, I could hear it. Next, he said, ‘What you hear best?’ I said it was the clar’net, but if I listened real hard I could separate out the bass notes on the piano.”
“Most people wouldn’t have heard anything but street sounds,” I said, my heart beginning to pound.
“Yep, the music was deep under things. Then the man told what he was hearing, and damn if he wasn’t hearing ever’thing I could. It come to me that maybe he was blind, too.”
Cold prickles danced across my spine. “He wasn’t blind, was he, Mr Parks?”
“Nope, though he was sure tuned up scary high for someone ain’t never had to live in the dark.”
“Did he frighten you?”
Mr Parks frowned, like doing a puzzle in his head. “He had a strange feeling pouring off him, like he had to do a job so important the need was pushing from his skin like heat. That’s as close as I can get with words. Did I feel like he wanted to hurt me? No. But something underneath his voice said I wouldn’t ever want him mad at me.”
“What did you do?”
“Once I could feel he didn’t mean no harm, I got interested in how high he was tuned. We started listening and smelling and talking about how much there was to hear and taste and smell, stuff most people never knew was going on, though it’s right there in their ears and noses and mouths. After we talked a bit I decided to come here to pass on his words. I thought maybe they were important in a way I couldn’t know.”
“What exactly did the man say, Mr Parks?” I asked.
The frown again. Trying to get it just right, Parks spoke slowly. “‘Tell Mr Ryder to consider George Bernard Shaw’s thoughts on sanity in the US.’”
I closed my eyes, suspicions confirmed: I heard Jeremy’s precise diction echoed in the old man’s words. Waltz was staring at me. His silent lips formed the question, Ridgecliff?
I could do nothing but nod, Yes. Waltz jumped toward the door. “Shaw, sanity, America. I’ll Google it and see what hits.”
I waved him back to the table. “Don’t bother, Shelly. I know the quote.”
“What is it?”
“An asylum for the sane would be empty in America.”
Mr Parks chuckled and snatched his hat from the table. He set it on his head at a jaunty angle.
“I picked up that the man seemed interested in you, Mr Ryder. You close wit’ him?”
“What made you think that?”
“He called you something nice, said you was –” Parks again paused to emulate my brother’s crystalline diction – “‘ever the hero on water or land’. Seems a nice thing to say, right?”
Waltz walked stiffly but quickly, his hand angling me into his office. Sweat sluiced from my armpits and I hoped it wasn’t soaking through my sport coat. Jeremy had sent the message just to prove he could. At least he hadn’t said anything to suggest our connection.
Waltz closed the door, shut the blinds. “We can send people to Washington Park. Maybe Ridgecliff’s still in the area.”
I waved the idea off. “He’s not close to the park any more, Shelly. Jeremy Ridgecliff doesn’t take those chances. Trust me on that.”
Waltz sat heavily, wiped his face with his hands. “Ridgecliff saw your picture in the Watcher, the only way he’d know you’re in New York. Why would he send you a message?”
“We developed a strange sort of rapport. He sees me as friend and enemy.”
“Friend?”
“Not in the usual sense. During our talks he was able to speak with me without being judged – that’s how you get under the hood: Make no judgments and let them talk.”
“And on the enemy side?”
“Part of him despises me for being able to open him up. He’d talk to me, then feel weak for opening up. These people hate being weak, Shelly. They need to feel strong and in total control.”
It wasn’t the whole truth, but close: My brother sought control in every direction, even over me. Being on the outside gave him more control than he’d had in fourteen years. It terrified me to consider how he would use that power.
Waltz said, “How long ago was it you interviewed him?”
“I talked to him a couple years back.”
I’d also talked to him nine weeks ago, which I neglected to mention. After postponing a visit for several weeks, I’d run out of excuses.