Hot Rocks (24 page)

Best if Crew made the move while he was on their ground, with them both on full alert.

Because she had to know. Two things Laine wasn’t, were slow and stupid. So she knew a man didn’t steal millions, kill for it, then count his losses cheerfully and walk away from half that pie.

It wasn’t just a case with the fun and challenge of the investigation, and a fat fee at the end of it, any longer. It was their lives now. To secure their future, he’d do whatever it took.

He scanned his notes again, stopped and nearly kicked back in the delicate chair before he remembered it wasn’t suited to the move. He hunched forward instead, tapping his fingers along his own printout.

Alex Crew married Judith P. Fines on May 20, 1994. Marriage license registered New York City. One child, male, Westley Fines Crew, born Mount Sinai Hospital, September 13, 1996.

Subject filed for divorce; divorce granted by New York courts, January 28, 1999.

Judith Fines Crew relocated, with son, to Connecticut in November 1998. Subsequently left that location. Current whereabouts unknown.

“Well, we can fix that,” Max muttered.

He hadn’t pursued that avenue very far. His initial canvass of Judith’s neighbors, associates, family had netted him little, and nothing to indicate she’d continued contact with Crew.

He flipped through more notes, found his write-up on Judith Crew née Fines. She was twenty-seven when they married. Employed as manager of a Soho art gallery. No criminal record. Upper-middle-class upbringing, solid education and very attractive, Max noted as he looked over the newspaper photo he’d copied during his run of her.

She had a sister, two years younger, and neither she nor the parents had been very forthcoming, nor very interested in passing on information. Judith had cut herself off from her family, her friends. And vanished sometime in the summer of 2000 with her young son.

Wouldn’t Crew keep tabs on them? Max wondered. Wouldn’t a man who took such pride, had such an ego, want to see some reflection of self, some hint of his own immortality in a son? Maybe he wasn’t particularly interested in maintaining a relationship with the ex, or with a small boy who’d make demands. But he’d keep tabs, you bet your ass. Because one day that boy would grow up, and a man wanted to pass on his legacy to his blood.

“All right, Judy and little Wes.” Max wiggled his fingers like a pianist about to arpeggiate. “Let’s see where you got to.” He played those fingers over the keyboard and started the search.

 

 

 

Walking voluntarily into a police station went against
the grain. Jack didn’t have anything against cops. They were only doing what they were paid to do, but since they were paid to round up people just like him and put them in small, barred rooms, they were a species he preferred to avoid.

Still, there were times even the criminal needed a cop.

Besides, if he couldn’t outwit the locals and wheedle what he needed to know out of some hayseed badge in a little backwater town, he might as well give it up and get a straight job.

He’d waited until the evening shift. Logically, anyone left in charge after seven was bound to be closer to the bottom of the police feeding chain.

He’d shoplifted his wardrobe from the mall outside of town with an eye to the personality he wanted to convey. Jack was a firm believer in the clothes making the man whatever the man might elect to be.

The pin-striped suit was off the rack, and he’d had to run up the hem of the pants himself, but it wasn’t a bad fit. The clown-red bow tie added just the right touch, hinting at harmless.

He’d lifted the rimless glasses from a Walmart, and wasn’t quite ready to admit they actually sharpened his vision. In his opinion, he was entirely too young and virile to need glasses.

But the look of them finished off the intellectual-heading-toward-nerd image he wanted to project.

He had a brown leather briefcase, which he’d taken the time to bang up so it wouldn’t look new, and he’d filled it as meticulously as a man might when traveling to an out-of-town meeting.

A smart player became the part.

He’d browsed through Office Depot, helping himself to the pens, notepads, sticky notes and other paraphernalia the administrative assistant of an important man might carry. As usual, such office toys both fascinated and bemused him.

He’d actually spent an entertaining hour playing with a personal data assistant. He did love technology.

As he walked down the sidewalk toward the station house, his gait became clipped, and his big shoulders hunched into a slump that looked habitual. He tapped the glasses back up his nose in an absent gesture he’d practiced in the mirror.

His hair was brutally slicked back, and—courtesy of the dye he’d purloined from a CVS drugstore that afternoon—was a glossy and obviously false shoe-polish black.

He thought Peter P. Pinkerton, his temporary alter ego, would be vain enough to dye his hair, and oblivious enough to believe it looked natural.

Though there was no one around to notice, he was already in character. He pulled out his pocketwatch, just the sort of affectation Peter would enjoy, and checked the time with a worried little frown.

Peter would always be worried about something.

He climbed the short flight of stairs and walked into the small-town cop shop. As he expected, it boasted a smallish, open waiting area, with a uniformed deputy manning the counter toward the rear.

There were black plastic chairs, a couple of cheap tables and a few magazines—
Field and Stream
,
Sports Illustrated
,
People
—all months out of date.

The air smelled like coffee and Lysol.

Jack, now Peter, tapped his fingers nervously at his tie and nudged up his glasses as he approached the counter.

“Can I help you?”

Jack blinked myopically at the deputy, cleared his throat. “I’m not entirely sure, Officer . . . ah, Russ. You see, I was supposed to meet an associate this afternoon. One P.M., at the Wayfarer Hotel dining room. A lunch meeting, you see. But my appointment never arrived and I’ve been unable to reach him. When I inquired at the hotel desk, I was informed he never checked in. I’m quite concerned, really. He was very specific about the time and place, and I’ve come here all the way from Boston for this appointment.”

“You looking to file a missing persons report on a guy who’s only been gone, what, eight hours?”

“Yes, but you see, I’ve been unable to reach him, and this was an important appointment. I’m concerned something may have happened to him on his trip from New York.”

“Name?”

“Pinkerton. Peter P.” Jack reached inside his suit jacket as if to produce a card.

“The name of the man you’re looking for.”

“Oh yes, of course. Peterson, Jasper R. Peterson. He’s a rare-book dealer, and was to acquire a particular volume my employer is most interested in.”

“Jasper Peterson?” For the first time, the deputy’s eyes sharpened.

“Yes, that’s right. He was traveling from New York, into Baltimore, I believe, and through D.C. before taking some appointments in this area. I realize I may seem to be overreacting, but in all my dealings with Mr. Peterson, he’s always been prompt and reliable.”

“Going to ask you to wait a minute, Mr. Pinkerton.”

Russ pushed back from the counter and disappeared into the warren of rooms in the back.

So far, so good, Jack thought. Now he’d express shock and upset at the news that the man he sought had recently met with an accident. Willy would forgive him for it. In fact, he thought his longtime friend would appreciate the layers of the ruse.

He’d probe and pick at the deputy and work his way around to learning exactly what effects the police had impounded.

Once he knew for certain they had the pooch, he’d take the next step and nip it from the property room.

He’d have the diamonds, and he’d take them—and himself—as far away from Laine as possible. Leaving a trail for Crew that a blind man on a galloping horse could follow.

After that . . . well, a man couldn’t always plan so far ahead.

He turned back toward the counter, a distracted look on his face. And felt a quick lurch in the belly when instead of the bored deputy, a big, blond cop stepped out of the side door.

He didn’t look nearly slow enough to suit Jack.

“Mr. Pinkerton?” Vince gave Jack one long, quiet study. “I’m Chief Burger. Why don’t you step back into my office?”

A thin worm of sweat dribbled down Jack’s spine as he
stepped into the office of Angel Gap’s chief of police. In matters of law and order, he much preferred working with underlings.

Still, he sat, fussily hitching his trousers, then setting his briefcase tidily beside his chair, just as Peter would have done. The smell of coffee was stronger here, and the novelty mug boasting a cartoon cow with bright red Mick Jagger lips told Jack the chief was having some java with his after-hours paperwork.

“You’re from Boston, Mr. Pinkerton?”

“That’s right.” The Boston accent was one of Jack’s favorites for its subtle snoot factor. He’d perfected it watching reruns of
M*A*S*H
and emulating the character of Charles Winchester. “I’m only here overnight. I’m scheduled to leave in the morning, but as I’ve yet to complete my purpose I may need to reschedule. I apologize for bothering you with my problems, Chief Burger, but I’m really quite concerned about Mr. Peterson.”

“You know him well?”

“Yes. That is, fairly well. I’ve done business with him for the last three years—for my employer. Mr. Peterson is a rare-book dealer, and my employer, Cyrus Mantz, the Third—perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“Can’t say.”

“Ah, well, Mr. Mantz is a businessman of some note in the Boston and Cambridge areas. And an avid collector of rare books. He has one of the most extensive libraries on the East Coast.” Jack fiddled with his tie. “In any case, I’ve come down specifically, at Mr. Peterson’s request, to see, and hopefully purchase, a first-edition copy of William Faulkner’s
The Sound and the Fury
—with dust jacket. I was to meet Mr. Peterson for lunch—”

“Have you ever met him before?”

Jack blinked behind his stolen lenses, as if puzzled by both the question and the interruption. “Of course. On numerous occasions.”

“Could you describe him?”

“Yes, certainly. He’s rather a small man. Perhaps five feet six inches tall, ah . . . I’d estimate about one hundred and forty pounds. He’s in the neighborhood of sixty years of age, with gray hair. I believe his eyes are brown.” He scrunched up his own. “I believe. Is that helpful?”

“Would this be your Mr. Peterson?” Vince offered him a copy of the photo he’d pulled from the police files.

Jack pursed his lips. “Yes. He’s considerably younger here, of course, but yes, this is Jasper Peterson. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“The man you identified as Jasper Peterson was involved in an accident a few days ago.”

“Oh dear. Oh dear, I was afraid it was something of the kind.” In a nervous gesture, Jack removed the glasses, polished the lenses briskly on a stiff white handkerchief. “He was injured then? He’s in the hospital?”

Vince waited until he’d perched the glasses back on his nose. “He’s dead.”

“Dead?
Dead?
” It was a fist slammed into the belly, hearing it again, just that way. And the genuine jolt had his voice squeaking. “Oh, this is dreadful. I can’t . . . I never imagined. How did it happen?”

“He was hit by a car. He died almost instantly.”

“This is such a shock.”

Willy. God, Willy. He knew he’d gone pale. He could feel the chill under his skin where the blood had drained. His hands trembled. He wanted to weep, even to wail, but he held back. Peter Pinkerton would never commit such a public display of emotion.

“I don’t know precisely what to do next. All the time I was waiting for him to meet me, growing impatient, even annoyed, he was . . . Terrible. I’ll have to call my employer, tell him . . . Oh dear, this is just dreadful.”

“Did you know any of Mr. Peterson’s other associates? Family?”

“No.” He fiddled with his tie, fussily, though he wanted to yank at it as his throat swelled.
I’m all he had
, Jack thought.
I’m the only family he had. And I got him killed.
But Peter Pinkerton continued in his snooty Harvard drawl. “We rarely talked of anything other than books. Could you possibly tell me what arrangements have been made? I’m sure Mr. Mantz would want to send flowers, or make a donation to a charity in lieu.”

“Nothing’s set, as yet.”

“Oh. Well.” Jack got to his feet, then sat again. “Could you tell me, possibly, if Mr. Peterson was in possession of the book when he . . . I apologize for sounding ghoulish, but Mr. Mantz will ask. The Faulkner?”

Vince tipped back in his chair, swiveled gently side to side with his cop’s eyes trained on Jack’s face. “He had a couple paperback novels.”

“Are you certain? I’m sorry for the trouble, but is there any way to check, a list of some sort? Mr. Mantz has his sights set on that edition. You see, it’s a rare find with the dust jacket. A first edition in, we were assured, mint condition—and he’ll, Mr. Mantz, he’ll be very . . . oh dear, insistent about my following through.”

Obligingly Vince opened a drawer, took out a file. “Nothing like that here. Clothes, toiletries, keys, a watch, cell phone and recharger, wallet and contents. That’s it. Guy was traveling light.”

“I see. Perhaps he put it in a safe-deposit box for safekeeping until we met. Of course, he wouldn’t have been able to retrieve it before . . . I’ve taken enough of your time.”

“Where are you staying, Mr. Pinkerton?”

“Staying?”

“Tonight. Where are you staying, in case I have something further on those arrangements.”