clock to find the pieces and put them together.”
Quinn winced.
“That would be a good start,” Pearl said.
DeRavenelle didn’t change expression as she looked somberly into the camera and returned coverage to the studio.
Deputy Chief Wes Nobbler sat behind his desk and watched the end of the Renz interview, then aimed the remote like a gun and switched off the TV just as the weatherman came on smiling.
Nobbler wasn’t smiling. His pink jowls spilled over his tight collar and exaggerated the downward arc of his thin lips. “Plenty of people wouldn’t mind seeing Renz’s investigation fall flat on its face,” he said. The bright morning sunlight searched his fleshy cheeks and couldn’t find a single beard stubble.
Detective Sergeant Ed Greeve nodded, knowing when not to speak. He was one of those average-height men who seem taller because of their gauntness and slight forward lean. His long, chiseled features, and his serious brown eyes with lids that angled down at the corners, added to the illusion of height. He was wearing an unremarkable gray suit that seemed to match his mood. His nickname was “The Ghost” because of his skill at tailing people or remaining unnoticed at observation posts. Greeve was a man going through life hiding in plain sight, making a career out of it.
He was also a man Nobbler had used before, in ways that skirted the law but advanced the cause of justice, not to mention Nobbler’s career. And Greeve was using his boss, Nobbler. What they knew about each other made them fellow travelers on the treacherous road up the ranks in the bureaucracy that was the NYPD.
“We need to monitor this situation,” Nobbler said.
Again Greeve merely nodded. A wooden toothpick protruded from the left corner of his mouth. It waggled slightly as he maneuvered it with his tongue.
“Renz has found his rent-a-cops office space to work out of over on West Seventy-ninth Street. That should make it easier to keep tabs on them.”
“We gonna need more people?” Greeve asked around the toothpick.
“Not yet, but when we do, it won’t be a problem. A loose tail should be enough for now. If they split up, choose the one who looks most interesting and follow. It shouldn’t take you long to figure out what they might know that we don’t.”
“They’ll probably lock that office when they’re out in the field, sir.”
“Most likely,” Nobbler said. “Most doors have locks.”
That was all he said or had to say. He knew locks were seldom a problem for Greeve, who had been an officer in the old Safe and Loft division investigating burglaries. In fact, locks were something of a challenge to Greeve, who would probably pay a late-night visit to the office on Seventy-ninth. Late night was his time, and darkness his good friend. He could see like a cat in the dark, which was another reason for his nickname. Greeve was viewed by his fellow officers as being a little spooky.
“What about my caseload?” Greeve asked. He removed the toothpick and reinserted it, this time in the right corner of his mouth.
“I’ve reassigned it. You’ll be on this more or less full-time. Report to me daily, or if anything notable needs to be shared.”
“Understood,” Greeve said.
“Needless to say, for now this is just between the two of us.”
“Needless,” Greeve agreed.
Nobbler felt a slight twinge. He couldn’t be sure sometimes if Greeve was taking him seriously or secretly making fun of him. Well, that was simply Greeve’s personality, or lack of same. One way or another, the man was useful and reliable.
Nobbler picked up a blue ballpoint pen and started playing with it using both hands, his elbows on the desk. He stared at the pen as if he’d never seen any kind of writing instrument before. He often did that with common objects. It gave the impression he was thinking of something other than what he was talking about, and was speaking in the abstract. “To be something like frank,” he said, “I’m not sure a police commissioner should run his own team of detectives, brought in and controlled by him as temporary employees of the NYPD.”
“I know others in the department who feel the same way, sir.”
Nobbler held the pen vertically and studied it, as if gauging it for angle. “Damned shame, but there it is.”
“Yes, sir. And splashed all over the media for everyone to see. There’s not much you can say, though. As a politician and media darling, Renz is golden.”
“There might be plenty we can do without saying anything,” Nobbler said. “It’s just a matter of deciding what, how, and when. There’s not much question about why.” He pressed the top of the pen and the point clicked out. Here was magic, his expression seemed to say. “I guess we’d both better get busy, Sergeant. The bad guys never take time off.” He dragged over some papers from the corner of his desk so he could sign them.
The conversation was over. A conversation that would never be referred to, because it hadn’t taken place. Like the tree that had fallen in the woods without anyone there to hear it. Anyone who mattered.
Greeve had experienced several such conversations with Deputy Chief Nobbler. The toothpick did a little dance and he almost smiled as he moved toward the door. “We’re on the same page, sir.”
Which didn’t mean they were going by the book.
8
Two weeks earlier
What the hell?
Shellie Marston stood before her open closet door and stared at her meager wardrobe. The black dress with the gray polka dots was still in its plastic bag from the dry cleaners, but she was sure she’d hung it yesterday on the opposite side of the closet rod.
In fact, some of her other clothes seemed to be out of place. The white blouse with the lace collar—she wouldn’t have jammed it between the two business blazers she seldom wore these days. And look, one of the lapels was bent.
This was damned odd. In fact, it made her flesh creep.
She recalled now the morning a few days ago when her cosmetics seemed to have been rearranged. Not drastically. Maybe a jar or bottle transposed or otherwise out of place. A can of hairspray she recalled as still useful had been dead when she picked it up, without the usual sputtering and irregular spray that could go on for several more uses.
She looked at herself in the vanity mirror. What? Was she getting paranoid? No one was getting in here. No one had the key, except for the super, a man in his sixties. She had to smile. Mr. Mercurio would hardly be wearing her clothes and using her cosmetics. He’d split all the seams if he tried to wriggle into the polka-dot dress. A vision of the dignified, mustached, and paunchy Mercurio struggling with her wardrobe almost made her laugh out loud. No, he was definitely not a suspect.
Of course, you never knew about people.
Yeah, she thought. Some people suspect things that never happened.
She had to admit it was possible that she’d hung her clothes
