You could feel it when you were close to her, hear it in her voice, see it in her facial expressions and body language when she didn’t know she was being observed. O’Reilly seemed not to mind diverting people on the off chance that Helen Sampson might provide some kind of lead, meet with a known arsonist or something, or maybe start a fire when she didn’t think anyone was looking. Department politics! That was the one thing about the NYPD that had surprised Rica when she finally figured out how things worked. Too much was done for purely political reasons. Made Rica want to puke. Say what you want about Stack; he was a hardhead and would never make captain, but it was because he was honest and he respected the Job. Everyone knew and said freely that he was one hell of a cop.
Rica and Stack and some uniforms from the Two-oh had been keeping a loose tail on Helen Sampson, which meant she wasn’t being watched every minute, but was being observed intermittently in the hope she’d bust some kind of move that would mean something. Rica had tailed her most of the evening, watched her leave her bookshop, ride a bus, get some takeout at a deli, buy some magazines—some kind of fashion shit—then go home to her apartment and not come out. It was damn near bedtime now, at least for Rica. She was going home.
The cab driver blasted his horn at her so she’d look over at him, then made a violent twisting motion in the air with his middle finger. The guy wouldn’t let it alone, so it was gonna be his problem.
When the light went green and traffic pulled away, Rica let the taxi zoom out ahead of her. Then she got on its rear bumper, rolled down the window, and placed the flasher on the unmarked’s roof. She motioned with her left hand for the cabbie to pull to the curb.
She was going to ask him about that business with the finger.
Rica had given the cabbie a rough time, playing the game he’d started, liking the surprise on his face when he’d found out she was a cop. The fear when she threatened to have the bastard’s job. The whole thing should have been a pleasure, a relief. So why was she crying here in her bed?
Her former husband, Rudy. The smart-ass cabbie. Stack…. Men!
She knew why she was crying. It was because Stack still loved his wife Laura. That was how it went: cops’ wives got fed up with the life first and walked out. The cops, the wives, blamed the Job, and usually they were right. Eventually, both parties learned there was no going back.
The eventually was the problem.
There were more tears, over an hour’s worth, before she fell asleep.
The next morning was cold but bright, with air so brittle it seemed if you sneezed you might shatter it. Rica and Stack drove the unmarked to the deli where Helen Sampson had bought last night’s takeout. Before driving on to park outside Helen’s apartment, Stack got them each a coffee and a danish and carried them out to the car.
Rica watched how his breath fogged and trailed behind him as he stepped down off the curb to cross the street, a big man ambling along with the gait he probably used years ago on his beat, wearing a long, dark coat of indeterminate color that, like the walk, might date back to those days. It was a simple, square-shouldered coat. Not what you’d call a topcoat, or a romantic trench coat with a belt and all those pockets. A sensible warm overcoat, was Stack’s winter garment of choice. No zip-out lining for this boy. Old-fashioned kind of coat. Old-fashioned Stack. Fixed object in a shifting world.
When they pried the plastic lids off the cups, the steam made the unmarked’s windows fog up, just as they had last night. Cozy, Rica thought. Nice and private. Stack peeled back a little plastic triangle from his cup’s lid, then replaced the lid to keep the steam down so he could see better what was going on outside. Rica left the lid off her cup.
Stack, behind the steering wheel this morning, made no move to start the car.
“All Helen Sampson does is work, eat, and sleep,” he said.
“She doesn’t eat much,” Rica said. “That’s because she’s grieving and has no appetite.”
Stack grunted his agreement and sipped coffee through the little triangular hole in the plastic lid. He thought maybe it was time to tell O’Reilly that Helen Sampson checked out okay. That they were probably wasting time and effort that could be spent on other crimes instead of the Danner murder. Stack had a gut feeling this was one of those times in a case where the best thing to do was sit back and wait and see what—if anything—developed.
“We just gonna sit here?” Rica asked beside him. Something in her tone suggested she thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea. She seemed to have edged closer to Stack on the car’s bench seat. If she weren’t so pushy…
“There wouldn’t be any point in that,” Stack said tersely. Throw some cold water on her. Them.
She said, “The city’s got more than its share of unsolved homicides. Maybe it’s time to think this might be another one.” She knew he wouldn’t consider her a quitter. Nobody ever accused her of that. It was just that they were going in circles on this Danner thing. “My gut tells me we should move on,” she added.
He lowered his coffee cup from his lips and glanced over at her, obviously a bit surprised and pleased.
“Are our guts in sync?” she asked.
“In sync,” he said, starting the car with his free hand. “Let’s cut Helen Sampson loose and concentrate our efforts somewhere else while we wait for any new developments.”
“O’Reilly might not like it,” Rica said.
Stack put the car in drive and accelerated away from the curb, sloshing a little coffee from the triangle in his cup lid so it ran down his thumb. “Screw O’Reilly.”
“In sync,” Rica said.
TWELVE
Dr. Lucette remembered now.
At least some of it.
He’d thought Sharon was back from downstairs, from her pedicure at Shear Ecstasy. But when he’d turned to look up at the figure standing near his chair, it wasn’t Sharon. He wasn’t sure who…
He winced as he recalled the object descending toward him, a club or sap of some sort. The flash of light and pain behind his right ear, then a dark downward spiral.
Above him a bright object sent out waves of glitter, making his eyes, his entire head ache. He tried to call out, to ask what was going on, but he couldn’t speak. Something covered his mouth so tightly that he couldn’t so much as part his lips. He could only moan. When he tried to raise a hand to rip away whatever was keeping him from speaking, he found that he couldn’t move his arm. Nor his other arm or either leg. He strained every muscle against whatever was binding him. So immobile was he that he might as well have been sealed in amber.
He heard a strangled whimper. His own.
For God’s sake, don’t lose it! You’ve been in tougher spots. In Vietnam. Not so long ago. Take inventory. Figure this thing out!
He was lying on his back and must have been bound tightly for some time. His arms, folded beneath him, were numb from lack of circulation, his legs firmly pressed together at ankle and knee. The brilliant object above him—steadier and with less glitter now—was the kitchen light fixture. So whoever had struck him and knocked him unconscious in the living room had dragged him in here and tied him
