Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost. J. Kerley A.
Why?”
“Maybe he figures he’ll be free from then on.”
The door banged open. A dick named Perlstein ran into the room, breathless, waving a page of notes. “We got a fix on him. Ridgecliff. Or at least we know where Ridgecliff’s been hiding. A homeless shanty town by the docks. Sleeping in a box. The precinct cops found people who remember him. Forensics just pulled his prints off a cereal box and a pop bottle.”
“He’s trying to blend in with the homeless,” Cluff said. “He can add or lose clothes, fatten his shape or go skinnier, hide his face. He can eat at churches, soup kitchens. Panhandle money.”
“I’ll update the BOLO,” Folger said. “What was he last seen wearing?”
Perlstein frowned at his notes. “It keeps changing. A green raincoat. A pair of overalls. A blue sweater and plaid pants. Black boots. Leather sandals. Purple running shoes.”
“That covers half the homeless in New York,” Waltz noted, not hiding skepticism.
“We’ve got a basic fix,” Folger defended. “Check every bum on the street. The info on Ridgecliff keeps mentioning his big baby blues. If a bum’s got blue eyes, hold him until he’s cleared five ways from Sunday. Exercise extreme caution. This guy thinks fast, kills like a machine. If he even smells like he’s gonna pull something, put three in his center ring, no regrets. Got that?”
Nothing but assent.
The news that Jeremy had been spotted scattered everyone in different directions. Folger went to update the info in the Be On the LookOut broadcasts. Cluff, Bullard and two others headed to the shanty town. That left just Waltz and me.
“What can I do?” I asked. “Give me something to do.”
“Maybe you should leave the city. If this guy feels some kind of bond with you, you’re in more danger than you recogni—”
His cell went off. He checked the number, muttered, “Pelham’s HQ.” Put the phone to his ear. I listened unobtrusively, hearing the words Doll? and When? and We’ll be right there, the last words spoken while looking at me.
“We received it today,” Pelham’s adjutant, the petite, square-jawed woman named Sarah Wensley said, looking over reading glasses at Waltz and me. “It came to Cynthia personally, but addressed to the campaign headquarters.”
We were back in the small room to the side of the rah-rah phone-bank operation up front. A knock hit the door before it opened and Pelham scooted in, dressed in a red pantsuit, a white neck scarf billowing in her wake. She looked delighted to see a room with fewer than a hundred people inside.
“I’m just back from my third lunch today. If I push any more chicken salad in circles, I swear I’ll go crazy. What’s happening, people?”
Wensley said, “I’m showing the detectives the weird doll.”
She pulled a rotund, vase-shaped doll from the bag. I was close and took it from her, latex gloves now covering my hands. The doll was maybe six inches tall. I opened the doll at the waist, empty. It should have revealed a smaller doll inside, and so on, for several dolls. I’d seen them in gift catalogs.
“It’s one of those stacking dolls or whatever,” Pelham said. “They’re all over Russia. But usually there are other dolls inside.”
I considered the cartoonish face. “Why no mouth?” I asked.
“That’s what made it kinda strange,” Wensley said. “Detective Waltz said call if anything was even a little odd.”
“No mouth?” Waltz said, pulling on his own gloves. “Pass it over.”
Waltz studied the flesh-pink paint below the nose. “The mouth has been painted over. Nice job of matching the color.”
I said, “Do you have Russian followers, ma’am? Or enemies?”
Pelham shook her head. “I’ve been to Russia three times, junkets, trade assemblies. Part of a crowd of officials meeting a crowd of officials, everyone mouthing platitudes. I’ve never taken any sort of volatile position concerning Russia or member states of the former Soviet Union.”
Wensley said, “There’s something creepy about it.”
Waltz and I traded glances. He thought so, too. That made three of us. He said, “I want everyone who touched the doll to get fingerprinted. And I want Forensics to check it over.”
“Why has the mouth been painted over?” I wondered aloud.
“Obviously, someone’s taken her voice.”
We all looked at Pelham. She started to say something else, but leaned against the wall and shook her head.
Jeremy Ridgecliff was crossing Canal Street, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, two shopping bags in the other. He’d been to electronics marts, gourmet shops, and import outlets. New York had something for every taste.
“You, sir. Stop right there.”
He turned to see a jowly uniformed cop leaning out the window of a blue-and-white cruiser. The fiftyish cop was looking over his sunglasses, brown eyes vacuuming in every nuance and detail. Jeremy felt angry that a stranger could so brazenly attempt to take his measure. He pictured the cop’s head rent with a sturdy axe, a ten-pounder. Crunch went the cranium. The picture and sound calmed Jeremy’s anger.
“Que?” Jeremy asked softly, stepping on to the sidewalk.
“Please stop walking, sir.”
Jeremy halted and pointed to his motionless shoes, like You mean this?
“Yes, dammit. I mean, si.” The cop exited the cruiser, an older guy, heavy. His equipment squeaked and rattled on his leather belt. Another cop, much younger, sat in the driver’s seat looking between a photo on the computer screen in the car and Jeremy. He made a motion at his hip Jeremy interpreted as unstrapping his weapon.
The driver opened his door and stepped out, watching across the hood of the car, one hand dangling by his sidearm. The heavy cop kept a half-dozen paces between him and Jeremy.
“Please set the cup on the ground, sir.”
Jeremy affected puzzlement, though he felt a sizzle of anger arcing across his gut. The cop jabbed a finger at the cup, then at the ground, meaning, Set it down, now! Jeremy complied, bending his knees, setting the coffee on the sidewalk, straightening. He kept his hands away from his body; Carson had said cops liked hands kept far from pockets.
“Now,” the cop said, “may I see some ID? Slowly, please.”
Crunch, the axe repeated.
“High-Dee?” Jeremy said, stretching puzzlement across his face. “Oh, iden-ti-ficacion. Um momento por favor. Está em meu revestimento.”
Jeremy reached toward his jacket, the cop watching the hand like a hawk focused on a field mouse. Jeremy retrieved his dog-eared passport, handed it over. The cop stared past Jeremy’s glasses and into his eyes, then studied him and the ID with equal scrutiny.
Crunch, crunch …
Jeremy pretended to watch a burst of pigeons overhead, not overly concerned with the verisimilitude of the passport. His neighbor down the hall in the Institute, Ismael Rogmann, had been a forger in addition to his habit of collecting human hands. Rogmann knew his competition, naturally, a good businessman. He’d traded the name of another master forger for thirteen plaster renditions of Albrecht Dürer’s Praying Hands sculpture. Rogmann had arrayed them on the floor and slept in their midst, a happy man.
The cop relaxed. Shot a stand-down glance at the driver. Handed back the Portuguese passport. “Thank you – I mean, Gracias, Señor Caldiera. We’re just doing some checking.”
“Chic-king?