Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost. J. Kerley A.
the portal. Nautilus breathed a sigh of relief, few things worse than searching through a furnace.
Nautilus was taken by the simplicity of the décor, two massive couches and three matching chairs, the cushions of soft red leather. There was a bright Oriental carpet, abstract art on the walls reminiscent of Kandinsky. Nautilus shot a look through the window. The locksmith was leaning against the car and smoking a cigar. Judging by the length of the cigar, he’d be outside a while.
“Go on, Nate,” Nautilus said to Allen. “The police call?”
“It looked like a standard B&E: Stuff scattered about, drawers open, the place tossed. Someone came through the front door, probably. Got past the lock.”
“The upshot?”
Allen frowned. “To hear her tell it, nothing was missing.”
“After all that work and scrabbling through the Doc’s belongings?”
“She said nothing was missing. Not a penny. There was something going on, Harry. I could feel it.”
“Tell me.”
“She’d worked late – she leaves for the Institute at seven, never gets home before seven, twelve-hour days were short for her. She arrives at ten p.m., sees stuff scattered around, calls us. She’s waiting on the porch when I arrive. I ask her to check on missing items while I look around. She jumps for the chance to do something. And then a change of attitude.”
“How so?”
“She checked in the bedroom, looking through the closet, a woman on a mission. The next time I see her she’s got a smiley face on, saying, ‘It looks like nothing’s missing. No problem. Goodnight. Thanks for stopping by.’ She did about everything but push me out the door. Something had her rattled, Harry.”
“Something in the bedroom?”
“She went in loud and irritated, came out quiet. If I had to guess, Harry, I’d say she found something important had been taken. Something no one was supposed to know about, maybe.”
Nautilus went upstairs to the master bedroom, Allen on his heels. He checked the walk-in closet. There were the ubiquitous dusty boxes on back shelves, the boxes heavy with yellowing photos and various keepsakes, typical. He saw a file cabinet in the back corner. He opened it and went through the sparse offerings.
“Looks like pieces of the past: financial stuff, mortgage records, old bank accounts, property transfers, bills. All neatly catalogued, like I’d expect from the Doc. I’ve got every hang-file occupied except one, the description card on it saying nothing. It’s simply blank.”
“Probably wasn’t anything there. But if there was, someone got it. Either the Doc or her visitor.”
“Listen, Nate, I’m gonna look around a while. Thanks for your help.”
Allen departed and Nautilus continued his search. The bathroom had the usual fixtures, the closets filled with bright towels and concoctions to scent, soothe, and soften. There was the hair-support system: blower, brushes, combs. The strongest chemical in the medicine chest was a bottle of ibuprofen. There were lotions and a bottle of perfume on a stand beside the sink.
Nautilus saved a small desk in an alcove off the kitchen for last; obviously the place Dr Prowse handled the domestic finances. He saw the standard stack of incoming bills for gas and electric, phone service, broadband, auto and so forth. There were credit-card statements. A bill from her wireless provider. Another bill for utility payments on an address in Gulf Shores, a resort-oriented seaside community on the eastern side of Mobile Bay.
The bills were a handful to plow through and he put the stack in a folder, tucked it into his briefcase for later. He’d been through the entire house. There was no office setting, or the kind of place he expected one saw patients. It seemed a bit off, given that several folks mentioned Prowse’s occasional private patients.
He sighed. His next stop was Gulf Shores. It was an hour southeast of Mobile, the last place to check for evidence of a private patient. If he could dig some time free on his schedule, he’d go there tomorrow.
Senhor Cesar Caldiera stood before a set of mirrors in the tailor shop in Chelsea, a store selling custom-tailored and expensive off-the-rack suits. Caldiera spun one way, then the other, admiring the dark and silky garment as the mirrors presented it from all angles. He frowned, patted his belly.
“The pants feel a little snug in the waist. The tiniest bit.”
Giuseppe Palmado, tailor, slipped a finger into the waistband of the trousers, wiggled the digit. “No problem, Signor Caldiera. Give me ten minutes with a needle, I’ll give you ten years with a beautiful suit.”
Caldiera beamed as he stepped into the changing booth, knowing he’d wear the gorgeous suit out the door, perhaps with the coral shirt. He was gaining quite a nice wardrobe.
Palmado took the pants to his work table, humming operatically.
Caldiera slipped back into his khakis and checked his watch as he walked to the storefront window. Yesterday she’d arrived about this time, left a half-hour later; back to work, probably. Was she a creature of habit?
Motion from across the street. Caldiera watched a dark-haired, oval-faced woman in her early thirties cross in his direction, wearing blue running garb and wearing a daypack that most likely held her work clothes. Caldiera glanced back at Palmado. The tailor was sewing at a distant table.
A rip appeared in Caldiera’s face. Fingers pushed through the flesh and Jeremy Ridgecliff squirmed free of the false body. He took a deep breath and gazed upon the street, reveling in the clamor and motion of his new world. The length, width, depth and breadth of his new world. When he walked the streets he felt like raw wind charged with lighting, a force that was part physical, part pure magic. Women were everywhere he looked. Sometimes it took all his strength to keep from screaming with joy.
Jeremy Ridgecliff watched Alice Folger pass a corner bistro – a hundred feet distant; he heard her footfalls over the traffic as she strode toward a tidy brick brownstone, bright flowers in boxes beneath its windows. Folger stopped at the door of the brownstone, slipped a key from her purse, went inside.
Ridgecliff heard floorboards squeak behind him and slipped back inside Cesar Caldiera. Giuseppe Palmado approached, holding up the slacks.
“They’re ready, Signor Caldiera.”
“As am I,” Caldiera said. He stepped into the changing booth, slipped on the pants. He jumped back out a minute later, his smile a white crescent.
“Perfeito. Perfect.”
Palmado studied his customer – black hair, dark eyes, olive skin. “Caldiera? Is that not Spanish, signor?”
“Não. Meu nome é Portuguêse.”
“My apologies. Portuguese, of course. I was wondering, is not Caldiera from the word for kettle, or cauldron? Like in the Italian, Calderone?”
Caldiera-Ridgecliff smiled into the mirror, seeing the suit fitting like a second skin. Again, it took all his strength to keep from screaming with joy.
“Sim, Senhor Palmado, yes,” Ridgecliff said. “I am most certainly a cauldron.”
I’d banged around ideas with Waltz for a bit, went nowhere, my mind a lump of wet clay. Then he’d had to handle more dealings with the upcoming convention, so I’d returned to the hotel, taken an hour’s nap, risen and showered. I was drying my hair when the phone rang, a grating sound that made my stomach sag. I believe in premonitions, the mind sensing threat through secondary channels and telegraphing warning via the body. I hesitated before lifting the receiver.
“Hello?”
Folger’s voice. “I’m standing knee-deep in blood, Ryder. Guess what?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Oh yes. It looks like your buddy